


The Elephants Dance

by yes_2day



Series: Yes_2day's series [2]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-10-31 08:16:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 56
Words: 267,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10895358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yes_2day/pseuds/yes_2day
Summary: This serial fic follows both in chronology and plot-line my previous serial fic, Wednesday Evening Salons. It continues to project one AU fantasy of what might have happened if John Lennon had not been murdered in 1980.





	1. INTRODUCTION

**Author's Note:**

> Here is Part II. I have written a number of chapters, but only very recently have I started to really understand the story's arc. Lots of angst and sex and surprises ahead, but we are talking about characters in their mid to late forties, and the number of people interested in this period of life might be limited. We'll see.
> 
> This fic is meant to follow the _Wednesday Evening Salons_ series, both chronologically and plot wise. This Intro is obviously not the most exciting part of the fic; it's purpose is merely to set up the plot's transition from one place to the other.
> 
> I have never visited Paul's farm in Sussex, so I have no idea if my descriptions are accurate. I'm hoping that an accurate description of the property is not a do-or-die aspect of the story!

          It wasn’t exactly how he had expected it to be.  Living on what amounted to a farm sounded more charming than it actually was.  Not enough to watch.  John had spent hours watching people out of his high-rise windows in New York.  But the most he’d see if he looked out the window now, especially in the winter, was mud.  And bad enough that he was an acre away from the main house, but there were all those horse pats strung like landmines between there and the “guest house” where he spent much of his time.  
       
         “Guest house.”  Humph.  It was actually an old windmill.  He’d never lived in the round before, and there were nights when he awoke to use the bathroom, only to walk around in circles for a while, like in a roundabout while looking for the right off ramp.  Oh, they had fixed it up for him.  It even had a neat little kitchen, and there was cable for TV.  When he first saw it he was utterly charmed with the romantic notion of living in a windmill.  Who gets to do that anymore?  And of course when Sean came to visit he thought it was fantastic – but then after a few days in the windmill with his dad, he lobbied for and was granted the right to sleep up at the main house, with his new best friend James.  How unfair.  No one cared that _he_ wanted to sleep up at the main house, with _his_ best friend Paul.  
  
         He sometimes felt he saw more of Paul – or at least, more of the Paul that belonged solely to him – back in the loft in New York City.   Maybe it had been only a few weeks at a time, but at least he had Paul completely to himself during those visits.  Here, there was so much to distract Paul, from his wife and children, to all the bleeding animals all over the frickin’ place, to his music room…  
  
         Music room.   John stopped in mid thought as he digested the concept of “music room.”  Lately he’d wanted to suggest to Paul that they start working in the music room at the same time.  It wouldn’t be as much pressure as “working together”.  Rather, they’d each work independent of the other, but at the same time and place.  John thought they might start picking up creative vibrations through osmosis again, like the old days, if they did that.   But somehow he had lost his nerve to bring it up.  He had been so successful in conveying to Paul that he didn’t want to work with him again, that Paul had stopped asking, and in fact tended to avoid the whole subject altogether.  
  
         There had also been a lot of good times along with the lonely ones, John had to admit.  Like when Paul would show up outside the windmill in a ridiculous bright pink mini or a motorcycle and honk his horn.  He’d take John on “adventures”, which usually meant they’d end up on some discreet edge of Paul’s acreage, fucking like rabbits in the forest either before or after a picnic repast.   Or, they’d go horseback riding.  John wasn’t all that crazy about horses.  Paul had told him that horses smell fear, so he had said to Paul, “Then I must be positively reeking.”  But, little by little, he had at least grown accustomed to the lolling gate of a passive mare while passing through fields of wild foxglove and bluebells.  And there were glorious nights when Paul would stay with him all the way until the morning.  Somewhere along the way, Paul had turned into an early riser, and it had been a bit of a struggle getting him to stay in bed long enough for John to wake up and demand seconds.  Then there were the days and nights John had spent up at the main house in the kitchen, joking with Linda while Paul banged away in his music room.  And the evenings when he ate dinner with them - the whole family laughing and talking, seemingly all at once.    And they had gone on vacation together a few times, like the time in Sardinia, and on such vacations John was much happier because he felt more a part of the whole family.  
  
         Thus, a year and a half had passed since he had left Yoko and New York behind, and so here he still sat in his windmill, with an acoustic guitar on his lap, strumming away aimlessly.  Paul had thoughtfully provided an array of musical instruments for him, but John only used an acoustic guitar or a piano.  He was not really poly-instrumental, like Paul was.   


 

*****

  
       Trouble was brewing.  Paul knew this at a gut level.  When he and Linda had invited John to stay with them after the separation from Yoko, neither one of them had expected John to settle in to the windmill, and never come out again!  To be honest, Paul wasn’t sure what he had expected, and he often berated himself for not predicting this.  Of course this would be what John would do.  Left to his own devices, he always devolved back into stasis.   As far back as Liverpool…Paul smiled ruefully as he recalled the times, such as after the band had suffered some setback or was going through a stale period  when John “took to his bed,” and refused to interact with the world.  Paul had left him alone for no longer than 2 or 3 weeks, and then he’d charge up the stairs, bang on John’s door and then enter without permission, and stand over him, yelling  “Get up!  Get up!” repeatedly…  
       
         _“Go away!”_  
  
         “No!  Not until you get up!”  Paul would grab the covers and strip them off John.  
  
         _“Christ, Paul!”_  
  
         “You’ve had your pout, it’s time to get back to work!”  
  
         _“Stop shouting!”_ John would shout, holding his head in both hands, as he sat on the edge of the bed.  
  
         “Got a _hangover_ Johnny?” Paul would aim for John’s ear with that one.  “Up!  You’ve made a start, but get up! Up! Up!”  
  
         John would lurch to his feet, and look around him in confusion, as if he expected his clothes to come to him.  _Whack!_ A shirt would hit his back followed closely _whack!_ by a pair of trousers.   _“You git!  If you start throwing me shoes I’ll cripple you!”_  
  
         Ever so slowly, John would be-clothe himself, as Paul bustled around him urging him to hurry.  Paul would then drag him to the bathroom, and hand John a toothbrush.  
  
         “I’m not brushing ‘em for you!” he’d declare, and John would finish his ablutions while Paul watched him from the doorway, arms folded in front of him in a busybody fashion.   
  
    Then they’d be out the door, and pounding away at their dream again.  
  
         Paul knew that he had to find a 1985 version of “Get up! Get up! Get up!” to tear John out of his lethargy.  John should probably lease a place in London, dip back into life a little, and see what it is to live alone finally.   But Paul didn’t dare suggest it, because John would automatically assume that Paul was “dumping” him.  The few times he had tactfully opined that London might be a more entertaining place for him to live, John had automatically leaped to the assumption that Paul was trying to push him out of his life.  _The more things change, the_ _more they stay the same,_ Paul acknowledged.  This was like in the late ‘60s when he lived in London and John in the suburbs, and John was so dependent on him for entertainment, as well as emotional and sexual satisfaction, that it had become almost like a millstone around Paul’s neck.    It wouldn’t be a problem if John enjoyed living in the country, but he so obviously didn’t.  And it wasn’t as if Paul was unwilling to move back to London to make it easier for John; no, he _couldn’t_ because the kids were in school and had a life here, and Linda was much happier in the country than she ever was in the city.  
  
         Paul shook his head free of cobwebs with determination.  He wasn’t the type to give up just because the going was hard.  He would just have to figure out a creative solution to the problem.  And lately the idea that he had come up with was one that would again create a burden on his family, at least for a while.  But it seemed to him that it might be the only way to kick-start John.  So now all he had to do was work up the nerve to talk to Linda about it.   No time like the present.  


 

*****

  
       Linda was, of course, in the kitchen.  She had just hung up the phone from a long natter with her friend Chrissie Hynde.  She looked chipper and spruce, as always.  She had another half hour before she had to cook dinner, so was amenable to a little sit down with Paul, and some coffee – an American habit she had somehow never broken, and instead had passed on to Paul.  
  
         “Lin, we’ve got to talk about John.”  
  
         Linda met Paul’s eyes squarely, and without anxiety.  She knew not all was well in that particular niche, but she had decided when John had moved in not to get too involved in what passed between John and Paul.  There was an old African saying that she had taken to heart long ago:  _when the elephants dance, the ants get squished._  
  
         “He’s miserable again,” Paul stated.  
  
         “It seems to be a regular state of mind for him,” Linda said objectively.  
  
         “He’s only really happy when we’re alone together,” Paul said, throwing caution to the wind.  
  
         “Sharing isn’t his cuppa tea,” Linda agreed.  
  
         “I have to help him, Lin.  He can’t help himself.”  
  
         “What did you have in mind?”  
  
         “He needs to be in London.  He can see all his old friends, hang out in pubs and cafes, go to bookstores, the theatre, maybe even find a new shrink…”  
  
         “Ummm hmmm,” Linda’s tone was even, without judgment.  
  
         “But he won’t go on his own.”  
  
         The penny dropped.  “So you need to go with him, is that what you’re saying?”  Linda looked quickly into her coffee cup.  She felt more guilt than anything else.  She knew that – ever since the “John thing” – Paul had accommodated her needs and desires more than she had his.  She supposed it was part guilt on his part, but another part was a genuine desire to atone.  Paul would prefer to live a more active life in the city more often, but had forgone touring and city life to accommodate her need to be in the country, and have their children experience a normal life.  
  
         “We could _all_ go with him,” Paul said faintly.  “But I know how it is with the kids in school and all...”  
  
         “How long will you be gone?”  Linda’s voice was flat and resigned.  
  
         “I’ll spend part of each week here, I promise.  I just need to get him set up first.  We can find him a flat to lease near Cavendish, and he can get into city life more.  I’ll come here for a part of each week once that’s settled.  I don’t know any other way to help him, Lin.”  Paul’s eyes were beseeching her to understand.  
  
         “So the answer is, you don’t know how long this will go on,” she finally said.  
  
         “A few months?  Just to get John settled.”  
  
         “And after that?  When he’s living there?  What will you do then?”  
  
         Paul hadn’t thought that all the way through, and he could tell that the answer to that question was going to be very important to Linda so he’d better figure it out soon.  “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to split my time between London and here.  But mainly here.”  Paul added the last remark after he realized how stark the first answer was.  Linda had a very skeptical look on her face for a long moment, before it relented a little.  
  
         “I love John, and enjoy his company,” Linda said.  “And I know how important he is to you.  I suppose I just have to hope that once he gets to London he’ll spread his wings a bit, and he won’t be quite so dependent on you.”  
  
         Paul nodded hopelessly, acknowledging the truth of what Linda had said.  There really was no guarantee that John would ever even loosen the apron strings, much less cut them.  But Paul knew he had to give it a try.  When you love someone, you want him to be happy; or, in John’s case, Paul smirked to himself, at least not miserable.  


 

*****

  
  
      It was a rainy, muddy March night, and Paul had driven from the house to the windmill to avoid the rain and the mud.  He stomped his feet on the doormat and banged on the door.  
  
         “Come in for god’s sake Paul,” John yelled from his comfy spot on the sofa.  “It’s your house too!”  
  
         Paul stumbled in, shaking out the oilcloth cape he’d worn over his dark blue jumper.  He quickly kicked off his muddy converse high tops by the door, and headed for John in his stocking feet.  He leaned over and gave John a kiss on the mouth, and then plopped down next to him.  John quickly rearranged himself on the sofa to make room, stretching his legs over Paul’s lap.  
  
         John had been watching television, but quickly turned it off in favor of some Paul-alone time.  He craved that time so much, he didn’t even like to think about it.  So he didn’t.  
  
         “You here for the whole night?” John asked.  It seemed an idle question, but it wasn’t.  
  
         “If I’m welcome.”  
  
         John snorted.  When was Paul ever _not_ welcome?  
  
         “How was your day?” Paul asked.  
  
         “Same as, same as…” John said unenthusiastically. “And yours?”  John’s eyes twinkled in a smart ass way.  
  
         Paul made a face, and subsided in to silence.  So much for a stilted attempt at conversation.  Might as well go straight to it, since John apparently wasn’t in a bullshit mood tonight.  “I’ve been thinking we should try living in London for a bit,” Paul said, simultaneously reaching for one of John’s bare feet, and massaging it absent-mindedly.  
  
         John loved it when Paul touched him, and his eyes rolled back in his head, and a slight smile traced across his face. He finally bestirred himself enough to respond.  “ _We?_ ”  John opened one eye to see Paul’s expression.  Paul’s expression was closed, of course.  So he was up to something.  This was an important conversation, so John knew he needed to pay close attention.  
  
         “You and me,” Paul said evenly.  
  
         “No Linda?  No kids?”  
  
         “They need to stay here,” Paul said.  “School.” He added.  
  
         John thought about this for a while.  His heart wanted to immediately shout “ _Nikoman_!” like that long-ago Athenian courier returning from Marathon, but the spoilsport that always controlled John’s emotions was there to lay on a slather of suspicion and distrust.  
  
         “So you’re saying you and I are going to be living in Cavendish without the family?”  John asked.  His eyes were studying Paul with a brash intensity.  
  
         “At first, yes, at Cavendish.  But I thought we could find a flat to lease…”  
  
         “Ah, I see.  The ‘loft’ all over again, but this time in London, not New York.”  A storm cloud was hovering over John’s eyebrows.  “Linda’s tired of me.  Or are you?”  
  
         “No, John, why do you always go to the worst scenario?  I know you’re miserable here.  You’re like a fish out of water.  I want you to be happy, and I think you’ll be happier in the City.”  
  
         “Only if you’re there,” John said flatly.  
  
         “Which is why I’ll come with you,” Paul reminded.  
  
         “For how long?  To get me all set up, so you can come back here and not have to worry about me anymore?”  John’s voice was becoming strident.  The lazy pessimistic tone had changed into impending rage.  
  
         Paul sighed.  Sometimes talking to John was like walking through a fucking minefield.  “I plan on splitting my time between London and Sussex, John.  _I’ll_ be the one running back and forth between you and Linda, so I don’t know what _you’re_ complaining about.”  Paul looked pissed, and this always amused John, because – well - _soooo_ cute.  
  
         “Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a twist,” John chuckled.  “Maybe we can spend the week in London, and the weekends back here.”  John made it clear he had no intention of being left in London by himself.  _Ever_.  
  
         Paul decided to let that go for now.  One damn thing at a time.  “So, do you fancy a trip up to London this week?  We can stay at Cavendish and reacquaint ourselves with the old haunts.”  
  
         John perked up.  “Yeah.  But how’s Linda taking it?”  
  
         Paul shrugged.  “She’s about as thrilled as you are with the whole idea; the only thing worse for all of us is to leave things as they are.  Honestly, I walk around all the time feeling like the last open seat in a game of musical chairs.”  
  
         John laughed.  “Just so long as Linda and I don’t join forces and hit you over the head with that chair, I think you’ll be alright.”  John poked Paul in his side with a toe, and Paul quickly folded up to protect himself for what was coming.  Sure enough, John tackled him, trying to tickle him in any unguarded part of his tummy.  Paul was devilishly ticklish, and this had always been a weapon of choice for John.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul move together to London, from Sussex, in mid-1985.

        The house on Cavendish Avenue looked eerily the same as it did in 1968, when John had last lived there.  Of course, he had stayed in the house a number of times for short visits since moving to England 18 months earlier, but Linda and the children had been there, too, filling the house with unfamiliar noises and objects.  Now, as John walked through the empty rooms, he felt as if he was visiting a ghost town.  He almost expected to run into circa 1967 Paul around each corner.  
  
         Paul, of course, was busy.  He was unloading the car, carrying in luggage, and clearing out the fridge while making a grocery list.  He was oblivious to John’s emotional passage, because of course he was used to the house under Linda’s regime.  
  
         John noted changes, subtle and obvious.  Linda was not a house proud woman, so although the place was more homey and comfortable than it had seemed under Paul’s bachelor sensibilities, there was still that slightly shabby, slightly haphazard look to the place that John so associated with Paul.  John smiled.  Paul could live surrounded by clutter and disorganization, whereas clutter and disorganization drove John crazy now.  Too many years of living in the white pristine-ness of Yokoland had turned John into an aesthete when it came to his living conditions.  He shrugged and sighed.  This was just another space in Paul’s life where he was only a visitor; Linda was chatelaine here, just as she was in Sussex.  He wouldn’t ever be able to make changes to the house, although his one great desire for as long as he’d known Paul was to have a home uniquely for them to live in.  


 

*****

  
       This whole line of thought brought back a deeply painful memory to John.  It was – 1966? – and the renovations on Paul’s new house were finally done, and he and Jane Asher had thrown a housewarming party.  John had dutifully attended, Cynthia in tow, and he had fought back waves of jealousy as Jane took them on a tour of the place, pointing out all of her design choices and improvements.  Paul had stood proudly next to her, as he explained to John and Cyn that Jane was moving in with him full time.  As soon as those words left Paul’s mouth, John felt a corresponding grip of pain in his stomach.  He had fought to maintain what was probably a sickly smile on his face during the house tour, and was relieved to be able to lose himself in the crowd back in the sitting room.  
  
         He began to drink.  He didn’t pace himself, and soon was in that ‘iffy’ mood that all of his family, friends and business associates had learned to fear so much.  He began to act out.  
  
         As the buffet was unveiled (Jane had cooked everything, and decorated the whole place as well), John began to make crude remarks about the food.  It was all so pretty and creatively arranged, but there didn’t appear to be a whole lot of it, and nothing looked as though it would stick to the ribs.  
  
         “Well!”  John announced loudly.  “That’s _my_ little lot!  What are the _rest_ of you going to eat?”  Cynthia blushed and shushed him.  A few nervous twitters were heard from the other guests.  Jane blushed angrily, but kept her cool, and Paul acted as though nothing untoward had happened.  John popped a small meatball into his mouth – having picked it up directly from the plate with his fingers (although toothpicks had been thoughtfully laid out for this purpose) and said, “One hundred more of these and I _might_ be satisfied!”  He then grabbed a handful of meatballs with his fist, dumped them on a plate, and moved on to some homemade fish sticks, lovingly sautéed in fresh baguette crumbs and covered with a smooth caper sauce.  “Oh look!  Finger pie!”  John shouted.  This was a double entendre, and no one there could be in any doubt – based on the tone of his voice - that John meant the naughty version.  
  
         Cynthia was mortified, and tried to engage Jane in a diversionary conversation, but Jane was clearly beside herself, and was fighting back angry tears.  Jane turned on Paul.  
  
         “Do something about him!” she hissed in Paul’s ear.  Paul had noticed John’s crude behavior, but hadn’t been offended by it.  So he whispered back in a conciliatory tone,  
  
         “Its just John being John.  Everyone’s used to it.”  This, of course, made Jane angrier.  She dragged Paul by the arm towards the kitchen.  John noticed this and yelled drunkenly,  
  
         “Watch out Paul!  She’s gonna pussy whip you!”  
  
         Paul turned to look at John as he was dragged away, his expression so easy for John to read, that there might have been a balloon over Paul’s head, like in the comics:  _Now you’ve done it John!  Shut your trap!_ John laughed at Paul’s expression and turned back to the buffet table.  He had a few more choice insults up his sleeve, but wanted to wait until Jane got back, for maximum effect.  
  
         Meanwhile, in the kitchen and out of John’s view (but as Paul explained to him later), Jane burst into tears and announced that John was “ruining everything.”  Paul comforted her as best he could, and said he’d try to coax John out of his bad mood.  
  
         Jane had no such soft feelings.  “Get him out of here!” she cried.  
  
         Paul was still convinced he could charm John out of his ornery mood, so he went back to the sitting room and moved next to John.  He took gentle hold of John’s right elbow, and said directly into John’s ear, “I have a surprise for you upstairs.”  
  
         All thoughts of causing Jane further distress vanished as John convinced himself that Paul was pulling him upstairs to have sex with him.  _That’ll show the bitch!  Especially if we do it in the bed she shares with Paul!_  
  
         Paul, however, had other ideas.  He led John up to the top floor – it was attic space, really – and into a room that was almost devoid of furniture, although there was a fireplace and a bathroom.  “It used to be a housekeeper’s suite,” Paul explained, “but now it’s our music room.”  Paul’s face was lit with pride, believing he was giving John a much-desired honor.  
  
         John looked around and noticed the piano, Hammond organ, and other musical instruments arrayed in the room.  He was confused, and looked at Paul for answers.  Paul handed John a key.  
  
         “You’re the only other person who has a key to this room.  It’s for us alone to use.  I’ve told Jane its off limits.”  
  
         “So where’s the bed?” John asked in a harsh but slightly joking manner.  
  
         Paul had made a face.  He had hated it when John spoke directly about their sexual relationship.  Apparently, he believed that if he didn’t talk or hear about it out loud, he could pretend it didn’t happen.  “I could hardly bring a bed up here, John,” he said reasonably.  “Jane would wonder what it was for.”  
  
         “You can tell her you like to lie down when you’re composing,” John suggested.  His eyes were boring into Paul’s relentlessly, pushing the point hard.  Paul smiled wanly but didn’t respond.  “So, we’ll be doing it on the _rug_ then?” John persisted in the same pushy tone of voice.  
  
         Paul actually blushed.  He got very nervous when John pushed him on this issue.  He had feared it was a mistake to even start back in 1961.  It had gone completely against his better judgment.  He had worried that it would eventually hurt their friendship and partnership, because Paul – at least – fully intended to eventually settle down with a woman and have a large family.  But, seeing John’s face – so filled with bubbling rage, fueled by his deep insecurities – Paul backed down from the confrontation, as he always did.  Paul had figured out years earlier that while he certainly had no trouble saying “no” to John, he rarely could make the “no’s” stick.  
  
         “I guess I can get a daybed,” he mused finally, blushing again.  
  
         John laughed.  “Make it big enough for the both of us, babe, or I’m sending it back!”  John declared, pleased that he’d carried the point.  John knew – sometimes even consciously – that Paul had become deeply uncomfortable with their sexual relationship.  It flew in the face of everything Paul had been brought up to believe in, and it was at constant war with Paul’s own sexual preference – women.  But John wasn’t about to let Paul off the hook.  Paul was a lot younger than John in some ways – he was, in John’s opinion, too heavily influenced by his family’s traditional social mores, and John had learned years earlier that he had to keep pushing Paul forward on certain issues, as Paul would otherwise cling to those safe and conservative values.  Their sexual relationship was the hottest of those hot button issues.  
  
         John had left Cavendish that day in 1966 with a dark cloud over his head.  Paul was slowly, gently, pushing John backward in his life, while simultaneously bringing Jane forward.  Yes, Paul had given him a space in the house where he had exclusive sway, but it was the frickin’ _attic_ , and Jane was the clear chatelaine of the rest of the house, and - more to the point – the central figure now in Paul’s love life.

 

*****

  
       The gloomy memory faded, and John found himself in the attic room, which was now a kind of apartment for the eldest daughter, Heather.  He turned and went back down the stairs to find Paul delivering John’s luggage to the guest bedroom.  John watched this maneuver with ill-disguised resentment.  Paul hadn’t yet noticed this.  John, still channeling his bad memory from 1966, immediately reacted.  
  
         “ _Really_?”  John finally asked indignantly.  “We’re not sharing?”  
  
         Paul looked up in surprise and then presented John with an easy smile.  “We can share _this room_ when we’re here alone,” Paul said.  
  
         John caught Paul’s unspoken caveats:  (1) he wouldn’t disrespect Linda by sharing the marital bed with John, and (2) when Linda was there, Paul would be sharing with Linda, not John.  
  
         John nodded with resigned regret.  Here he was again, the odd man out:  the “secret” lover, the one who was “less than” the woman in Paul’s life.  It had begun sinking in on John after his move to England that it would always be this way.  It was down to John to decide if it was something he could live with, and John honestly didn’t know if he could.  
       
         This should have been a happy day.  He had succeeded in separating Paul from his family for a while; he had Paul to himself at least for a few weeks.  But John had begun to suspect that this was an attempt by Paul to set him up somewhere safe, so he could go back to living mostly with his family, and only part time with John.  John was willing to give Paul the benefit of the doubt, but his deep seated insecurities had been put on alert, and now appeared to have the upper hand again in John’s emotional landscape.  
       

 

*****

  
       A few nights after they’d moved in to Cavendish, Paul heard from some old friends – Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend.  They were recording in London, and had heard through the music world grapevine that John and Paul were hanging out in London, too.  They suggested a night out, and John was amenable.  They all met in a favorite pub first, for a few pints and some pub food, before moving on to more adult-rated entertainment.  It was odd to be out on the town in London again, together, like in the ‘60s, Paul thought.  He remembered so many crazy nights in the clubs with John, wrapped up in their Beatle Sainthood and dazed by drugs.   The crap they got away with was quite shameful, really.  Paul didn’t know if it was a benefit or a burden to have that kind of adoration – the kind that makes other people let you get away with any kind of outrageous shit.  Paul, at least, had brakes, and knew when to pull himself back from the brink.  John, however…well, John was a handful, and he would always go further than he should.  When Paul was there, though, he would only be allowed to go so far, before Paul gently, invisibly, pulled him back in.  
  
         They settled in a discreet corner of the pub, and started in on their first pints.  “The last time I was here,” Paul assayed, “it was with Keith.  The night before he died.  He had just showed up, and pushed himself in to the booth with me and Linda.”  
  
         “Ah, Moonie,” Roger said with a fond sadness.  
  
         “He was one crazy dude, if I do say so myself,” John added.  “Remember that time in Malibu, Paul?”  John was referring to 1974, when Paul, Linda and the kids had dropped in on John and friends during John’s “lost weekend.”  It had been in the house that Keith Moon and Harry Nilsson had rented.  
  
         “He kept squeezing himself in between you and me on that little divan,” Paul recalled, smiling gently.  
       
         “He had a crush on you, Paul,” John said.  
  
         “He’s not the only one…” Pete interjected, making Roger laugh knowingly.  John gave Pete a sharp, suspicious look, and Paul was oblivious to it all.  
  
         John continued:  “Keith couldn’t keep his hands off Paul that day.  He kept touching him, and even kissed him once or twice.”  
  
         “On the forehead,” Paul edited quickly, and then he chuckled and said, “He was so fucking high he thought I was his girlfriend.  Linda even suggested that Keith and I should get a room.”  
  
         “Over my dead body…” John joked.  Everyone laughed.  
  
         Everyone then fell silent.  
  
         After a few weighty moments, Roger finally spoke.  “So what are you two doing in London?  Are you working together again?  Everyone is buzzing with the news, you know.”  
  
         John met Paul’s eyes, and signaled that he would handle the awkward question.  “No, I’m thinking of getting a pad here, and Paul is helping me find one.  We might work together again, but we haven’t really discussed it yet.”   Nothing about Paul’s expression would lead a third party to believe he wasn’t in complete and sanguine agreement with everything that John had said.  
  
         The conversation turned to the Who’s new record, and then a decision was made to go hang out in a trendy new nightclub in Chelsea that Pete favored.   As soon as they were in the door of the club, John knew in his bones that it was a mistake.  There were dozens of beautiful young women in there, and they were cruising.  When four famous rock stars walk in, even if three of them are married, the stakes get raised considerably.  John wanted to leave.  Although he was the only single man amongst the four, he no longer wanted to live a lie; he had spent the ‘60s sleeping with women in sublimation of his true desires.  It would feel terrible to slide backwards into that demi-life.  And Paul looked just as uncomfortable.  But John knew this was because of Linda.  He wouldn’t want to embarrass or hurt Linda, yet there he was in the center of what appeared to be a shark feeding frenzy, with women prowling around him from every direction.  Since Paul was almost unconstitutionally incapable of being rude – even if his life depended on it – John was going to have to fend off the bolder of these women on Paul’s behalf.  Or at least that was what John told himself he was doing, his own self-interested possessiveness having nothing to do with it, of course.  
  
         John and Paul were not the only ones who were uncomfortable that night.  Roger Daltry, who was notorious for his numerous flings while on the road, did not like to embarrass his wife when he was back home.  Only Pete was chillin’. Of course he loved his wife, but life was meant for celebrating! So the four of them sat there, three of them enduring the evening for Pete’s sake (no pun intended), flirting as harmlessly as possible with the women that flitted around them like moths to a flame.  
  
         A few hours into the evening, John found himself sitting next to a man who – unlike most of the club’s patrons – was quiet and observant.  Feeling awkward after having sat silently next to the man for several minutes, John turned to him and said, “Does this place weird you out too?”  
  
         The man turned to look at him, and John was shocked at the open invitation in them.  A lazy smile flickered in the man’s eyes.  He leaned over and said quietly to John, “Too many women.  That’s the problem.  Don’t you agree?”  The man’s eyes did not leave John’s as he whispered, and John felt a strange chord being plucked in his heart.  
  
         John said, “Well, I’m too old for this scene, now, is more how _I_ feel…” John let his sentence peter out as he watched the man’s grey eyes flirt and probe with his own eyes.  The man was probably 10 years younger than John, in his mid-thirties, and he had close-cropped pepper and salt hair.   The two men sat quietly side by side for a few more moments, while John thought of something to say to either end the conversation or continue it.  Directly in their line of view was Paul, standing at the bar, and being flirted with by a very beautiful woman.  Paul looked at ease on the outside, but John knew Paul’s tells, and noticed the tight knuckles on the drink, and the way his upper body was moving further away from the woman as she moved closer to him.  John knew how that woman felt.  Paul was beautiful.  It was intoxicating to be near him, and you could never get close enough…  
  
         The man spoke again.  “He is really something,” he said.  
  
         John looked quickly at the man, his face tense and questioning.  “What?” John asked abruptly.  
  
         “Your friend there – Paul,” the man said, gesturing with his head in Paul’s direction.  
  
         “What do you mean by that – ‘something’?”  John was getting angry, and was prepared to leap to Paul’s defense.  
  
         “He’s almost too beautiful to look at.  Like staring into the sun.”  The man had an objective look on his face as he gave Paul a thorough once over.  He then looked sideways at John again and said, “Too rich for my blood, though.  I prefer something more...” here his eyes roamed over John in a blatantly sexual way, “…savory…”  
  
         John decided that this was a line too far.  “Excuse me, but I think it’s time for my group to move on.  Nice to meet you…” John got up, and as he turned to leave, the man handed him a business card without saying a word.  John turned and walked away.  This place was creeping him out, and he wanted to take Paul away from here – to Cavendish – where they would both be safe from dangerous interlopers.  But he put the man’s card in his pocket.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul are house-hunting, and this sparks a strong memory of the past for John.

        “If I see one more ‘elegant flat with mod cons’ I’m gonna puke,” John grumbled, as he picked at his scrambled eggs.  The newspaper was laid out on the breakfast table, with real estate listings circled in red.  Paul had done the circling.  John was less than sold on the idea of moving out of Cavendish.  He couldn’t help equating it with losing Paul again.  
  
         “Well, it will be a lot easier to find a ‘crap flat with no cons’, if that’s what you’d prefer,” Paul responded cheerfully, as he circled yet another possibility.  “Come on, John, get into the spirit of the thing.  You get to reimagine yourself!  Loads of people would die for that chance.”  
  
         John gave Paul a flat look, and then returned his dejected gaze to his scrambled eggs.  
  
         Paul sighed.  “Come on, then, let’s go.  I said we’d meet the estate agent at his office 30 minutes from now.”  
  
         John grouchily got to his feet, and with Paul clucking and nipping at his heels allowed himself to be dragged out of the house and into Paul’s car.  As they drove, John spoke.  He found it easier to say certain things to Paul when Paul’s attention was – as it was now – focused on something else, like driving.  
  
         “This place I’m going to buy…”  
  
         “ _We’re_ going to buy it, John, _together_ …” Paul quickly interjected.  He sensed where John was going, and was hoping to cut it off at the pass.  But no such luck.  
  
         “Yeah, ‘ _we’re’_ , right.  How’s it gonna work?  When the family is in London, are you staying with them or with me?  Is London ‘mine’?  Or is it only ‘mine’ when Linda’s in the country?”  
  
         Paul was frustrated.  John would not even allow for the possibility that he might enjoy a little independence now and then.  But he swallowed his frustration, and said, “It’ll be give- and-take on all our parts, John.  This is fuckin’ hard for all of us, and the only way to make it easier is to stop trying.  What would you prefer we do?”  
  
         John let loose a heavy sigh and sat back in his seat, crossing his arms.  They drove in silence until they met the estate agent.  
  
         This was their fifth day of flat hunting, and John was thoroughly over it.  They were looking for a three bedroom flat or townhouse with at least two and a half bathrooms, with a large living area and space for a music room.  The problem was that most of the nicest buildings were older, and the rooms were all boxed off from each other, and it would require a lot of remodeling to make them work.  There were some new loft-type flats across the Waterloo Bridge with staggering views of the City, but John felt the “loft” feel was too much like New York.  He’d prefer to have something that felt more like a home.   It was also way too far away from St. John’s Wood, and he wanted this flat to be as close to Cavendish as possible, so as to make it easier for Paul to be there more often when the family was in town.    He had made this requirement clear to the estate agent who, finally, appeared to take it seriously, because today they were looking only in the immediate neighborhoods to St. John’s Wood.  
  
         “This one has just come on the market – it hasn’t even been shown yet.  It is actually perfect for what you want, I think.  It needs to be updated, but I think the floor plan suits your needs already, so no heavy remodeling.”  The agent was nattering away as they approached an elegant set of Regency era townhouses located in Maida Vale, not far from the Edgeware Road, and within two miles of Paul’s house on Cavendish.  
  
         Number 19, an end of terrace house, was in fact perfect for them.  It came complete with a generous balcony with ornate wrought iron cornices and railings, overlooking a huge garden that was common for the block of townhouses.  John perked up as soon as he went indoors.  It had four floors, and although each room was relatively small, they had proportion, high ceilings, and large windows.  The whole place needed to be emptied, scraped, and redone, but the agent was right – no walls needed to be moved.  They had only been in the place 5 minutes before John turned to Paul and smiled.  Paul interpreted that to mean that “this” was “the one.”  So it was time for him to start negotiating with the agent.  
  
         “Looks pretty warn,” Paul said innocently, as he prodded an ill-fitting kitchen cabinet, and bent over to study the loose baseboards.  In the en suite master bathroom he made a prune face while staring at the bathtub, and then made an even prunier face when he saw the shower stall.  He gave the agent a desperate look.  
  
         “Yes, it will need to be redone, updated,” the agent said placatingly.  “But it will be snapped up very quickly, so I wanted you to see it before they started marketing it.”  The agent looked hopefully at Paul, who nodded and shrugged in apparent ambivalence, and then proceeded to test the strength of the balcony railing.  
  
         “Does this seem loose to you?” He asked the agent idly.  The agent tried the railing and opined that maybe it needed a little work.   “Hmmmm…” Paul said, as he walked back into the living area, staring at the ceiling.  He stopped short and stared at a crack that ran the width of the ceiling.  The agent looked up and noticed the crack.  
  
         “Of course, we would require a full inspection before closing,” he said.  Paul looked quickly at the agent, gave a brief but unconvinced smile, and then moved back towards the kitchen.  
  
         “This needs to be _completely_ gutted,” Paul mused, as if to himself, making it sound like the whole enterprise was almost too much to even consider.  “And…I’m not sure it is big enough.  John – do you think this will be large enough?”  John had been following quietly after Paul and the agent, trying to hide his amusement with Paul’s kicking-the-tires routine.  He knew this Paul very well.  He remembered one particularly hilarious and successful negotiation he had watched Paul unfold, back when they were Beatles.  


 

*****

  
  
        It was 1965, and their first contract with EMI was winding down.  Negotiations had been reopened between Brian Epstein and EMI to renew the contract.  An offer had finally been made that Brian felt was appropriate, but Paul wanted to understand the offer better.  He asked a lot of questions that Brian couldn’t answer to Paul’s satisfaction.  Paul had talked to John about it.  
  
         “I don’t think Brian has a clue about how to negotiate from a position of strength,” he said.  “We were nobodies and nobody wanted us when we signed the first contract, and the first contract was heavily in favor of EMI.  Now, after 3 years and all the money we’ve made them, I think the contract should be heavily in our favor.”  
  
         “How do you know it’s not?”  John had asked, not understanding Paul’s anxiety.  
  
         “I don’t.  It’s just that I don’t know if Brian is aggressive enough.  I want to talk directly to Sir Joe.”  Sir Joseph Lockwood was the chairman of EMI, and a wily, smooth operator, and – amongst friends – a contentedly gay old bachelor.  He always nursed a not-so-secret proud fondness for the outrageously beautiful and talented McCartney, treating him as the first among equals when it came to the Beatles.  Just like the son he never had.  
  
         Paul had refused to sign the contract until he had a chance to talk with Sir Joe about it, so, reluctantly and with a definite pout on, Brian had set up a meeting for them in the EMI studio cafeteria, during a recording break.  Sir Joe had looked supremely out of place in the cafeteria, his gleaming silver hair combed back just so, and his immaculate pinstriped slacks falling gracefully over his elegantly crossed legs.  John had come along at Paul’s insistence, although John doubted he would have any idea what they would be talking about, and, what’s more – he thought he had no interest in it, either.  
  
         Paul opened the discussion by blushing prettily a little before he shyly asked a question.  “It says here we get ‘net points.’  What does that mean?”  
  
         Sir Joe smiled paternally at Paul.  How sweet.  His expression seemed to say, ‘ _why are you worrying your pretty little head over such things_?’ but his mouth said, “A ‘point’ is a percentage point.  And of course, in the context of this contract, a ‘percentage point’ refers to a percentage of the net profit.”  
  
         Paul listened with every indication of earnest concentration.  Then, after another halting blushing moment, he said, “When I was at school I took some accounting.  I remember that ‘net profit’ meant what was left after certain ‘below the line’ expenses were subtracted.  Is that what it means in this contract?”  Paul’s eyes were utterly innocent, but now Sir Joe was looking at him with slightly squinting eyes.  
  
         “Well, yes, Paul, a ‘net point’ means a percentage of the profit after certain expenses and overhead have been subtracted.”  
  
         “So what sort of expenses and ‘overhead’ – I think you said – is subtracted from the profit before we get our net points?”  Paul’s voice had grown a little less hesitant, a little more sure of itself.  
  
         Sir Joe looked at Brian as if to say, “Do I really have to go through this silly exercise?”  But Brian just shrugged and made a face.  The “face” meant that he could not control Paul’s curiosity, so they might as well try to satisfy it.  Sir Joe sighed, and John noted it all with a bit of a smug grin on his face.  
  
         “Well, Paul, obviously the costs of the recording studio, the equipment leases, the engineers and other staff.  All of those expenditures must be paid before EMI actually sees a ‘profit’, so, they would come off the top.”  
  
         “It seems like the equipment leases – aren’t they in use all the time by several different artists?  Are we _all_ paying off these equipment leases _all_ the time?  I would have thought you would have paid off the equipment in full four or five times by now, given all the money we’ve brought in, not to mention your other artists.”  
  
         Paul’s face suddenly appeared to Sir Joe as shrewd and intelligent.  How could he have missed this before?  Sir Joe added, “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”  
  
         “You mean the tax write offs.”  Paul stated this more than asked.  
  
         “What?”  Sir Joe was rootless at this point.  
  
         “The equipment leases are also a write off, aren’t they?  As the equipment decreases in value over time?  In accounting, we were taught that equipment can actually make money for a business as it depreciates because of the tax breaks.  Seems like it isn’t fair to charge us for leases that are making money for EMI.”  Paul stopped for a moment, an expression of fraudulent confusion on his face.  “Don’t you agree, Brian?”  
  
         Brian jumped when his name was called.  He looked nervously at Sir Joe, and then at Paul.  “My suspicion is that complex business is a bit different than bookkeeping, Paul.”  Brian’s voice wasn’t meant to sound patronizing, but it was.  Paul appeared not to notice.  He turned back to Sir Joe.  
  
         “And these other expenses.  You mentioned ‘overhead’.  What are those?  Do they include the office expenses and furnishings?”  
  
         “Well, yes.  And the utilities…”  
  
         “What about those huge flower arrangements that are always in the executive suites?  And the Rolls Royces the executives drive?  Are they ‘overhead’ too?”  
  
         Sir Joe was struck silent.  He glared at Brian.  How dared Epstein put him through this insolence!  Couldn’t he handle his clients?  Brian was busy whispering to Paul, but Paul never took his eyes off of Sir Joe’s face.  Finally Sir Joe realized that if he wanted to re-sign the Beatles he had to make Paul happy.  He turned to Paul and said flatly, “What is it that you want, Paul?”  
  
         “It isn’t just me.  It’s all of us.  Right, John?”  
  
         John nodded furiously in agreement and then smiled at Sir Joe.  
  
         Paul said:  “We want the kind of points the executives and investors get.  I think they’re called ‘gross points’.  Isn’t that what they’re called?”  
  
         Sir Joe nodded grimly in agreement but didn’t speak.  
  
         “And isn’t it true that you and some of the other executives get gross points?”  
  
         Sir Joe was seeing where this was headed, and he didn’t know how to stop it.  John, meanwhile, was fascinated.  
  
         “What’s a gross point?” John asked Paul.  
  
         “Well, John, that’s a percentage of the actual profit, before you subtract these below the line expenses, and, what was it – ‘overhead’.”  Paul explained, happy that someone had asked.  He turned to Brian.  “Brian, had you discussed the possibility of the Beatles getting gross points instead of net points?”  
  
         Brian stuttered for a few moments and Sir Joe answered for him.  
  
         “It’s unthinkable!  No artists ever get gross points!  The investors get the gross points because they take the risk.  Artists can fail as well as succeed, and more of them fail than succeed.  It’s a going concern, and we have to balance the successful acts with the unsuccessful ones.”  The blustering came to an end and the table fell into an uncomfortable, empty silence.  
  
         After a few moments, Paul picked up the thread of the conversation again, with a still very respectful and thoughtful tone intact.  “Yeah, ‘risk.’  Well, you did take a risk on us 3 years ago, I agree.  But we’re not such a ‘risk’ now, are we?  Are you suggesting that the Beatles have to pay EMI for the acts that fail?  If so, it would only seem fair that we should be able to veto any acts we don’t like, seeing as how you would have us basically invest in them.  Anyway, if we’re paying for the failing acts, that means that now it’s _us_ taking the risk, doesn’t it?  So gross points for us would seem to be in order.”  
  
         Sir Joe was dumbfounded.  How had he let this not-yet-23-year-old bang him up so badly?  He finally found his voice again.  “I have no authority to approve gross points in an artist’s contract.  For such an unusual request, I would have to go to the Board of Directors,” he intoned, trying to make this sound like an ominous last resort.  
  
         Paul showed no concern.  What was the Board going to do?  Say ‘no’?  The Beatles could up and go to any other music company in the world, but EMI could not replace the Beatles.  Paul smiled at Sir Joe in a friendly manner.  “Ok, why don’t you do that, then?  Brian – agreed?  Sir Joe will discuss this with the Board, and we’ll sit on the contract until we hear back.  By the way, Brian, the four of us would like you to look at other options in case the Board says no.”  
  
         Sir Joe made an indignant sound, and Brian rushed to calm him down.  Paul, meanwhile, had gestured for John to get up and go with him.  He turned in Sir Joe’s direction before leaving.  “We have to go back to work, Sir Joe.  We really appreciate you taking this time to answer our questions,” Paul said with a warm smile, offering his hand.  Sir Joe had reached out and numbly shook the proffered hand and absent-mindedly nodded goodbye.  John had followed Paul out of the cafeteria, down the hall, and into the men’s loo.  There, they had both burst out laughing, stuffing wet paper towels down their mouths to buffer the sound.  
  
         A few days later the Beatles signed a new contract with EMI that was entirely to Paul’s satisfaction.  


 

*****

  
        As they left the Maida Vale townhouse that 1985 afternoon, Paul turned to the estate agent and said, “John seems to really like the place.  I’m less sure.  But if the seller is prepared to be reasonable, I think we would be willing to make an all cash offer.”  
  
         As the estate agent knew, and Paul understood, all cash offers were few and far between, and usually they involved members of the Saudi Royal Family, so most buyers would be willing to make concessions for an _English_ all cash buyer.  And it proved to be thus.  
  
         Finally, John had a home of his own which he could share equally with Paul.  His name was on the title there along with Paul’s:  “ _John W. Lennon, a single man, and James P. McCartney, a married man, to be held in joint tenancy, with rights of survivorship…”_ John paid half, and Paul paid the other half.  Even though Paul had agreed to pay half only because John didn’t have enough cash left after his divorce to buy the whole thing himself, John preferred to forget that bit, and instead view the joint tenancy situation in a more romantic light.  After all, it had been 28 years since the first time John had laid eyes on Paul, and fell in love at first sight, and he had finally arrived at this lifelong goal.  Now the question remained:  how would it work?  Was this a way for Paul to extricate himself or back away somewhat from their relationship, or was this Paul’s way of pulling John closer into the center of his life?  
  
         Only time would tell.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul goes home to Sussex and John is not happy with this. His nasty side reappears. Angst ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion topics: (1) Do you think that John would ever agree to a sharing life agreement with Paul and Linda if the opportunity arose? I'm sure many of you find this hard to believe. I'm on the fence myself, despite this fic. (2) Do you think John had sexual relationships with other men (other than Paul?) Many think that maybe he did with Brian Epstein and Stu Sutcliffe; again, I'm on the fence. (3) Do you agree that Linda filled in for Paul the missing support and unconditional love he lost when he mother died? My own opinion is: yes. (4) Do you think that Paul would have taken John back if John had broken character and asked for it?
> 
> I'd love to hear your comments on these subjects. Oh, and I also hope you find this chapter entertaining, even if it is angsty. :)

         The weeks had passed, and the townhouse was finished to John’s satisfaction.  He had instructed the workmen to paint everything white, and Paul had stood in the middle of the reception room staring at all the whiteness with bemusement on his face.  
  
         “Don’t you like it?” John asked anxiously.  
         
         “Well, it’s a bit… _white_ …” Paul said in a neutral tone of voice.  
  
         “All the walls at Cavendish used to be white, in the ‘60s…” John said defensively.  
  
         Paul smiled and said, “You’re right.  They were.”  He added hopefully, “But maybe you’ll put a bit of color in the furnishings?”  John wasn’t so much into color.  He wanted a super sophisticated and smooth palette.  Paul caught the expression on John’s face and laughed.  “Well, let me choose the artwork at least.”  John acquiesced, knowing that Paul had an incredible art collection.  That decided, John went to work furnishing the place with white, beige, and navy blue pieces.  
  
         A few weeks later, they had moved into the townhouse in Maida Vale, although there was nothing on the walls, and some of the furniture had not been delivered.  The fourth floor attic room had been set up as a kind of music room, with instruments and equipment.  Paul had caused it to be soundproofed, and since it faced the end of terrace wall, they could be sure they wouldn’t bother the neighbors with their plunking around.  
  
         They had been in London for several weeks, returning to Sussex regularly, and always on weekends.  John had refused to be separated from Paul, and Paul hadn’t been willing to push the idea, knowing how fragile John could be.   But this time, Paul needed to tend to his home life, and he had to put his foot down.   They were sitting at the breakfast table when Paul broached the subject.  
  
         “John, I’ve got to go back to the country for a while,” Paul said as smoothly as possible, as he simultaneously made himself busy with his part of the newspaper.  
  
         “So when are we going?” John asked, deeply engrossed in an article about South African diamond mines, and not looking up.  
  
         An awkward moment passed.  “Actually, I need to go on my own.  There are school fetes and I need to spend some time alone with my family.  They miss me.”  Paul had stopped fussing with the newspaper, and had reached out and grasped John’s wrist.  
  
         John was struck dumb.  It was his worst nightmare come true, he thought.  Paul had settled him in his own flat, and was now going home to Linda and his children, his mission accomplished.  
  
         Paul saw the stricken look on John’s face, and felt his heart melt.  John really was a bottomless pit.  They had been together every day – sometimes they’d only seen each other for an hour or so, but they hadn’t been together this often since 1967.  And still it wasn’t enough.  Linda had been more than patient.  She had seen Paul only half of his time in the last few months, and never without John lurking within an acre’s drive.  It was her turn, and Paul had been feeling guilty about it for weeks.  
  
         “When will you be back?” John asked in a stilted voice.  He was smothering either rage or fear, or both. “And what the fuck am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”  
  
         “I’ll be there for two weeks,” Paul said, “and then I’ll come back here for a few weeks.”  
  
         “And then?”  
  
         “And then we’ll see how it goes.  We’ll play it by ear.  I’ll spend some weeks here with you and some weeks there with them.”  
  
         “Am I not welcome there anymore?”  
  
         “It’s not that.  It’s just that you have a space that is yours, and Linda needs a space that is hers.  I think it is better that way.”  
  
         “And you’re just the busy little bee pollinating both of the flowers?”  John’s voice was bitter, bordering on bitchy.  Paul looked up with a kind of shock and John saw the surprise in his eyes.  “It’s very big of you, splitting your valuable time between me and the Mrs.,” John added snidely.  He watched Paul’s eyes widen and then narrow.  “It must be nice to be so much in demand.  I suppose I should be grateful I’m on the agenda at all.”  
  
         Paul was speechless.  But he remembered this.  He remembered how John always tore into him with this kind of verbal brutality back in the ‘60s when he was unhappy or felt threatened.  It didn’t hurt Paul any less now than it did then – in fact, it hurt more, because Paul had hoped that John had put that kind of cruelty behind him.  Apparently not.  It ‘’had just been waiting for the moment to arise.”  Paul snuffled as he had that bitter thought.  How many times had he swallowed the insults?  At least this time there were no witnesses.  In the past, John had always done his _best_ work when there was an audience.  
  
         John was sorry he had let the bile leak out.  He could see the distrust and sadness flicker in Paul’s eyes before he summoned up his Beatle Paulness, and wiped all trace of his true feelings off of his face.  John was mad at himself.  Now he’d done it.  He’d chased the turtle back into his shell.  And after he’d spent over four years trying to coax him out!  He’d just set _that_ effort back several years, no doubt.  Still, John was angry about the situation.  Angry about being left in his pied a terre while his lover drove off to the family home.   What was he supposed to do, alone in London?  
  
         Paul had pretended as though the nasty comments had not been made.  He calmly said, “You have lots of friends here, John.  You should call them up.  You like those artsy films – why not go see some while I’m not around to groan and complain about them?  I’m sure Pete would go with you, for one.”  
  
         John nodded numbly.  “So when are you leaving?”  His voice was elaborately blasé.  
  
         “It can wait a day or two…” Paul started.  
  
         “No.  Go today.  Right now in fact.  There’s no point in you larking about here just because you think I’ll be miserable without you. I won’t, you know. “  John had a pugnacious expression on his face, and Paul could see the pride warring with the pain.  
  
         “I’m glad you won’t be miserable, John,” Paul said softly.  “That’s the last thing I’d want you to be.”  He sat quietly hoping for some peace offering from John, but John just stared at him as if he was bored.  
  
         “What are you waiting for?  If you leave now you’ll get to Sussex before dinner.”  John’s voice sounded flat, unconcerned.  
  
         Paul got up, awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.  He hovered next to John’s chair, wondering if John would be open to a goodbye kiss, but he decided against chancing it when John snapped open the paper, and began reading his article again.  Paul shrugged, and left to pack an overnight bag.  He didn’t need much, since the bulk of his belongings were home in Sussex.  “Home.”  Paul thought about that for a moment, and looked around the master bedroom he shared with John.  In an apparent attempt to please Paul, John had purchased a scarlet throw that looked like a bloody gash on the white settee.  Despite himself, Paul smiled at that.  So much for “color.”  Would this ever seem like a “home” to Paul?  Why did he feel so disengaged from everything these days?  Like he was going through the motions.  
  
         As he carried his bag down the stairs, he hoped that John would be waiting for him on the ground floor to say goodbye.  But as he reached the first floor, he saw through to the dining room and John’s unyielding back was still in the chair.  
  
         “Goodbye, John.  Would you like me to call you when I arrive?”  
  
         “What for?  Do you plan on crashing?”  John didn’t turn his head, and his voice still sounded sarcastic and bored.  
  
         Paul forced a laugh and, feeling discomfited, he closed the back door behind him and headed into the mews to collect his car.  He didn’t see John watching him from the window as he drove off.  
  
         As soon as the car had disappeared from view, John picked up his empty teacup and smashed it against the wall.  He then picked up Paul’s cup, which Paul – of course – had carelessly left empty on the table.  He threw that at the wall too.  This didn’t satisfy John’s frightful rage.  He was brimming with it.  He was being “managed” by Paul.  Paul took him totally for granted.  Paul believed that he was a pathetic fool who was hopelessly in love.  Well, John would show him!  He’d have such a good time over the next two weeks, that he wouldn’t be home to take any calls from Paul, and he’d hardly even notice that Paul was gone!  
  
         In this vengeful mood, John first studied the newspapers for movies playing in the art cinemas, and finding a likely option, he then stalked over to the desk in his study, and started plowing through the bits and pieces and cards that comprised his filing system for friends’ phone numbers.  He started searching through them for Pete’s phone number.  And he came upon a card.  


 

R. Nigel Lawson-Fielding  
Ne’er Do Well  
Somewhere in Chelsea

        John studied the card for a while, trying to remember who this person was.  Where did he get it?  He turned it over, and on the back was written a brief quote, in starkly dramatic handwriting:  _“Too many women…”_  


 

*****

  
         Paul had strong and mixed emotions as he drove down to the country from London.  He had felt disconnected from John emotionally for some time now.  He hadn’t yet put his finger on why, but here he was – finally! – alone! (even if only because of a few hours’ drive), and able to think clearly.  One thing for sure was that John was suffocating him.  This had happened in the late ‘60s, too.  John always managed to put Paul in a quasi-parental role, and given his own “big brother” tendencies, Paul had always been more than willing to step into that role.  They brought out the worst in each other – John would become overly dependent and demanding, and Paul would become overly protective and controlling.  A no-win proposition.  
  
         The sex was still incredibly good; at least Paul thought it was.  He wondered if John felt that way, though.  Since moving back to England, John had, over time - but steadily - stopped wanting to be the dominant one in their sex life, so all the hard-won strides they’d made in finding a more equal sexual power balance between them had been lost.  
  
         Most painful of all, though, from Paul’s point of view, was John’s complete disinterest in Paul’s musical projects.  Paul had long-since accepted the bitter fact that John had no desire to work with him again.  But just lately, Paul had been focusing on classical music, and John couldn’t have been less encouraging or supportive if he’d been actively trying.  Music was such a big part of Paul, and without it he didn’t know who he was.  Paul had begun to worry that the part of John he had loved and needed the most was his creative partner.  Maybe what was wrong was that Paul was desperately trying to give John what he wanted and needed, but John was not willing to reciprocate – not even to show the slightest interest in what Paul was doing.  
  
         And now – today – the reemergence of Abusive John!  Paul was upset with himself that he had not confronted John about it.  Instead, he’d slipped right back into the stoic, logical Paul with the “gentle touch” that John had turned him into by 1966.  A phrase went through Paul’s head before he could block it.  _We’re poison to each other_.  It chilled his soul, and Paul felt tears welling up.  It was a matter of time now, before their valiant attempt at reconciliation would exhale its last breath.  They were already in that last downward spiral – like the one in 1968.  
  
         John was disrespecting him in private now.  Soon, he’d start putting Paul down in front of their friends.  The gossip (since the putdowns would also be wickedly funny) would make it to the tabloids, and then to the trades.  John knew the secret that Paul held close.  Paul had poured out his heart to John on the subject more than once.  For the same reason boys teased Paul at school, and men insulted him in the clubs, and male reviewers and critics dismissed him, John would disparage him.  John knew all these men hated Paul, and for the least fair of all reasons: his looks.  Paul knew that had he been not-so-very-good-looking, if the girls liked him just a little bit less, men could have accepted his talent and success with equanimity, as they had John’s.  But having all three attributes at once was an unacceptable embarrassment of riches, apparently, and it brought up their own feelings of inadequacy.  So John’s insults and putdowns of Paul fed their envy, and they giggled and gossiped about it like a clique of mean 15 year-old girls, only too happy to see the Perfect Paul humiliated by his best friend.  
  
         Paul’s eyes were blurry – so blurry that he couldn’t see properly.  He pulled the car off on to a lay-by, and suddenly he was overcome with pain.   He began to sob, and it was – at least for a time – uncontrollable. He felt as though there was a giant foot pressing on his chest, and it became increasingly difficult to breath.  Paul realized what it was – a panic attack.  He’d suffered from them repeatedly between 1968 and 1972.  Paul searched his car desperately for a paper bag to breath into, and could not find one.  So he stumbled out of the car, and then bent over at the waist, gasping for air.  He instinctively channeled Linda’s voice from the past:  
  
         _It’s okay, Paul.  We have each other.  We don’t need much.  We’ll be all right.  It’s just a passing fear.  Take a deep breath.  Hold it.  Count to ten slowly._ Then he could almost hear Linda counting to ten as he followed these imaginary instructions.  Slowly he felt his chest loosening up, and his breathing – while fast and shallow – was not a painful struggle any more.  Paul waited until his heart had stopped racing, and his breathing was normal, before he took emotional stock.  
  
         Linda.  He needed Linda.  He _wanted_ John, but he _needed_ Linda.  She never said mean things to him.  She believed in him when virtually no one else did.  She had seen him at his absolute worst, and she had still loved him.  No wonder he felt disconnected and adrift!  He had been neglecting the one relationship in his adult life that had actually given him more than it had taken away.  With this urgent realization in mind, Paul climbed back into his car, and got straight on the road again – heading directly for Linda.  


 

*****

  
         That night, John faced Pete Townshend across a pub table.  They had gone to see a seriously depressing Swedish film, and then poured out of the cinema into a dull, uninspiring rain.  They both smelled like wet wool as they stared at their pints.  
  
         “I might have seen a more depressing film before, but I can’t think of one just now,” Pete finally remarked.  He was trying to get a rise out of Lennon.  The man just sat there, looking sad and lost all evening.  He had spurned all questions about how he was doing.  Pete tried again to find a way into a conversation.  
  
         “So what’s Paul up to these days?  Back in the country?”  Pete had no idea he’d just gone from the frying pan straight into the fire.  
  
         John looked up at Pete with irritation and said, “Yeah. Back with the ‘little’ woman, although she’s not very little.”  
  
         “She’s really a nice person, though,” Pete offered.  “She’s always been lovely to me.”  
  
         John nodded, as if in defeat.  “Yeah.  To me too.”  
  
         “So are you and Paul working together yet?”  
  
         John’s irritation was even more obvious now.  “Why does everyone go on about that?  Can’t we just be friends without all these fucking questions?  No!  Paul is trying to compose classical music for some unknown reason.  I couldn’t be _less_ interested in that.  I don’t see the point.”  
  
         Pete was not picking up the cues well.  He continued on in this dangerous line of questioning.  “I worked with Paul, once, in 1979.  The Concert for Kampuchea.  ‘ _Rockestra_ ’.  I enjoyed it very much.  I always thought I’d make a good writing partner for him, but I blew it.  He’s so fuckin’ good looking.  But he’s either really straight, or he didn’t fancy me.”  Pete waggled his eyebrows suggestively.  
  
         “What the fuck are you talking about?” John snapped back.  
  
         Pete was taken aback, and said, “I made a few passes.  I’m sure I’m not the first bloke to ever try that with him.”  Silence fell over them and John appeared to be sad again.  Pete’s curiosity was aroused, so he decided to go for it.  “Didn’t _you_ ever consider it?  It must have crossed your mind once or twice.”  
  
         The look John gave Pete could leave him in no doubt that he had gone too far.  But then John answered in a mild, dismissive voice.  “I never went there, Pete.  And I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”  
  
         John was relieved when he finally got ‘home.’  Or, as ‘home’-like as it could feel without Paul there.  He couldn’t stop recycling the terrible things he had said to Paul that morning.  The first thing he’d done upon getting home was to check the telephone answering machine.  There was no message from Paul.  Even though John had told Paul not to call, he had harbored a hope that Paul would do so anyway.  John knew he had really fucked up.  He had promised Paul that he could have his family without interference, and then he had done everything in his power to keep him away from his family.  
  
         John never considered calling Paul in Sussex to apologize.  John didn’t like to apologize, especially not to Paul.  It was some kind of weird power issue between the two of them that kept John from making timely apologies. He believed that it was Paul’s job to lose face and give in first, and only after that would he admit that maybe he was a little wrong, too.  
  
         As John prepared to get off the sofa and head for his lonely, cold bed, he noticed – lying on the coffee table – the little calling card for that strange man he’d met in the club.  _R. Nigel Lawson-Fielding_.  What a pretentious name!  John hadn’t minded flirting with men – he’d done it fairly regularly throughout the ‘70s – but he found it a creepy experience to have a strange man so obviously and confidently hitting on _him._ He shook his head, and dropped the card back on his desk with the other bits and pieces, and, in a haze of melancholy, trailed upstairs to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some formatting problems with this chapter and couldn't figure out why. Hopefully, even if it is buggy, you'll be able to read it.

       Paul felt normal again.  He spent each night wrapped in Linda’s arms, and the mornings joking around with the kids.  They were overjoyed to have him home.  He spent his days in his music room working on developing a theme for a classical piece.  He spent the evenings with his family around the dinner table, and communing with them in the sitting room.  
  
         Linda had noticed the change.  Paul – _her_ Paul – was back.  But he seemed incredibly needy emotionally.  When they made love, he seemed to hold on to her for dear life.  She wondered about John, but didn’t want to be the first one to bring it up.  As far as she could tell, Paul wasn’t talking to John on the phone.  If the two had separated, she knew that eventually – and probably soon – Paul would become unglued.

      Paul had been avoiding the John Problem.  He had called John a few days after he arrived in Sussex, just to check in, but had gotten the voice message machine.  He’d left a brief message, but John hadn’t called him back.  Sometimes Paul felt that John was punishing him for the perceived “abandonment,” but other times he feared John was moving on, and away from him.  Paul hadn’t tried to call again.  That was what the ‘old’ Paul would have done – call back and act all cheerful like nothing was wrong, and work his charm to jolly John out of his mood.  No.  Not this time.  John had been rude and unreasonable to him, and had not apologized.  Paul had made one attempt to make contact, and now it was up to John.

         At least it was easy to push these thoughts away, because Paul had always been good at papering over interpersonal messes.  He just focused on Linda, his kids, and his music, and the days flew by.

   John, however, was becoming progressively more desperate.  At least he hadn’t sat home and stewed, which had been his pattern in the ‘70s.   He found he couldn’t bear to be home alone, and had found numerous excuses to be almost everywhere else.  He’d had dinner at George and Ruth Martin’s home.  He’d hung out with Ringo one night.  He went to bookstores during the days, and then lingered alone and unrecognized at small cafes.  Tonight he was going to “party” with Pete Townshend and some friends of his – they were going to another trendy London club.

   Not for the first time, John wondered if he should call Paul.  He’d gotten the voice message from Paul, but had taken it to mean, “I got here alright.  Everything’s fine.”  He had been left with the impression that Paul wanted to spend the entire two weeks with his family.  So John had tried very hard not to intrude.  And truthfully, he was deeply hurt.  He had hoped that Paul would miss him so much that he would want to talk to him on the phone, but obviously that wasn’t the case.  John’s ever-present fear of abandonment had been activated, and had started sending out warning signals.        John met Pete and three friends of his at an Italian restaurant.  With their meal, the five of them polished off four bottles of very expensive wine.  Somehow, John ended up with the bill, which was in the neighborhood of £1500.  They then drifted off to a quiet bar where they each downed three rounds of drinks, and John was presented with a bill of in excess of £200.  After that they moved on to a club, where the cover charge for five people alone set John back about £500.  That of course didn’t include the endless rounds of drinks they all ordered for themselves and the women who circled around them. At the end of the night at the club John’s bill came to over £1200.  The night had cost him almost £2800!  John hadn’t even noticed it; his accountant would be left to have a stroke over it later.

          John was so drunk by 1 a.m. that he barely knew what he was doing.  There was a lovely little blond sitting on his lap, and she had taken his hand and guided it to her breasts, which were overflowing her blouse.  She was clearly desirous of getting it on with John.  John was feeling horny, and didn’t think it was such a bad idea.  They were both too drunk to do much in the club, but as the evening drew to a close, about 3 a.m., John dragged her with him into a cab, and took her back to Maida Vale with him.

          Giggling, they burst into the front door, and staggered in the direction of the staircase.  On the first floor, they collapsed in the reception room, and John found a bottle of whiskey to share with his “date”.   They each finished off almost a half of the bottle, and were fairly useless at the end of it.  John was trying to make sexual advances, but it was difficult for him to sustain an erection.  Instead, the woman (with an eye to the main chance) dragged him upstairs, and they climbed into the master bed together, stark naked.  They were soon in a deep sleep.  

           It was late morning when John began to regain consciousness.  What awoke him was the fact that someone’s hand was gently wrapped around his cock, and was beginning to work it.  John groaned with pleasure, and turned on to his back.  He opened his eyes expecting to see Paul’s face, and saw a rather sharp looking blond female instead.  This surprised him very much.  He had a horrific headache, and he also had difficulty concentrating.  Did he really just see a blond woman with exaggerated boobs leaning over him, working his dick?  Oh gawd…what on earth happened last night?  He slowly tried to sit up, but his admirer pushed him back against the pillows. She climbed on top of him and began giving him the horizontal version of a lap dance.  John really couldn’t stop her when she was being so generous, so he laid back and enjoyed it.  

           John felt the orgasm building in him, and he allowed the freedom of it to rush over him.  It was a release he desperately needed after all the worrying he had done about Paul.  He didn’t feel guilty at all. Paul had Linda, and so John felt why couldn’t he have his – ‘friends.’  It was only fair.  Anyway, this cum was going a long way towards relaxing him after a week of tremendous stress. He reached up and pulled the woman down towards him roughly, and then kissed her deeply.  She was melting in his arms, and it all felt so warm and lovely.

           He let the woman stay for a while.  Her name (at least the one she told him) was Marnie.  John honestly didn’t think real people had names like that, but one name was as good as the other when you were having a very fly by night fling.   She was only too happy to hang around with John Lennon in his posh townhouse.  He was single and famous and wealthy.  What’s not to love?  He also was really good in the sack, and always seemed ready to rumble.  She never understood anything he was saying; she could never tell if he was being serious or if he was making fun of her.  And when friends come over with their girlfriends, he was just as likely to end up in bed with one of the other women as he was with her.  

          John’s indulgence in low-grade debauchery began to drag on him after about four days.  He was tired of the whole scene.  It had really just been a way to spend the time while Paul was away.  Now he had to literally stop himself from picking up the phone and calling Paul.  It had only been 11 days but he felt as though it had been a decade since he had seen or talked to Paul.  He figured he had to get this crowd out of the townhouse and let the housekeeper loose, so it would be back to normal by the time Paul got back from Sussex.  John was anxiously awaiting the reunion, worried that things would be awkward between them.  

          The night before Paul’s expected return, the phone rang.  John was surprised to hear Paul’s voice on the other end.  He couldn’t help letting some of his bitterness out.

      “Oi!  He speaks!”  John declared in an overly shocked voice.

          “I could say the same thing to you,” Paul said, his voice low and amused.

          “Well, I thought you wanted to be alone with your family,” John pouted resentfully.  

          Paul didn’t know why he suddenly felt guilty, but he did.  How could John do this to him?  Treat him horribly, and then make it feel like somehow it had all been his own fault?  He sighed.  He knew John was not going to like what he had to tell him.  Before he could start, John jumped in.

          “So what time are you arriving tomorrow? “ John asked, as if he could care less about the answer.  Actually, his heart was beating fast to hear Paul’s voice again, and he was greatly anticipating their reunion.    

          “I’m afraid it won’t be tomorrow,” Paul said bravely.  He rushed on quickly to explain.  “Linda’s sister and her children are coming over for a week to visit, and my brother is coming down from Liverpool too.  It was very impromptu.  So I thought I’d stay here for another week.  Linda says you are welcome to join us.”  

          John took the news in deadly quiet.  He didn’t trust himself to speak.  

          Paul felt the silence.  “John?  Are you there?”

   “Yeah – but I don’t know why!   What the fuck?  I’m ‘welcome to join you’ while you have your little family reunion?”  John’s words were being shoved out of his throat with extreme effort.  His heart was thundering in his chest.  He felt light headed, and he had sat down abruptly because he was shaky on his legs.      

          Paul sighed.  The sledding was going to be uphill all the way.  “You _are_ part of my family, John, and you belong here even more than my brother or Linda’s sister.  I would like it very much if you would consider it.”      

          John was still bitterly disappointed.  “I wanted to be alone with you, Paul, not surrounded by a bunch of people – where Linda is your wife, and I’m just this weird friend of yours who hangs around.  No!  I want you to come back to London like we planned.  It’s my turn!”      

          At that moment, Paul was so tired of dealing with John’s tantrums and moods.  He had spent two weeks of peaceful bliss with Linda and his children.  No drama.  No hidden agendas or verbal minefields.  It was exhausting being John’s lover, and at that moment he felt as though John was pulling out all the stops to show him just how unreasonable he could be.  “I’ll be back next week, John, and – if you change your mind, I’d like it if you would join us.  I’ll drive up and get you if you want to come.”  Paul left the offer open, and felt only a stony silence.

          “Fine,” John growled.  “But maybe I won’t be here next week.  Just so you know.”  And John hung up with a loud bang.

          He then went raging through the house, banging drawers and cabinet doors much too loudly and muttering imprecations under his voice.  _Damn that infuriating man!_ He hadn’t been this angry at Paul in years!  How insensitive of him to suggest that he should trot down to the country and play the confirmed old bachelor to Paul’s happy family man.  Anyway, he knew Paul didn’t really want him there.  He knew Paul had felt that he had to invite him, but no doubt he would have been disappointed if John had actually accepted!      

          And here it was late at night, and he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop his mind, and he was desperately anxious.  He poured himself a large whiskey, and then another one.   He scavenged around for some friends’ numbers and tried calling them, but they were not answering their phones.  Probably off partying already.  He did not want to be alone, but felt insecure about going off to one of the nightclubs without someone he knew.   He pawed through his bits of paper and cards searching for a friend he could call at this late hour.  And then he found that curious calling card again:  _R. Nigel Lawson-Fielding_.  Hmmm…

   John put the card down again and went back and filled up his whiskey glass.  As he drank his mood became ever more ugly.  Paul was taking him totally for granted.  He figured John would just come running when he snapped his fingers.  It was all right for Paul, who was _never_ alone.  _I’ll show him he’s not the only fish in the sea_!   Fortified by the whiskey, John picked up the card again, and boldly called the telephone number.  It rang several times, and John was just about to hang up when a dry, sexy voice answered.

  “Yes, hello?” The voice intoned.    

            “Is this…Nigel?”  John asked with sudden shyness.

            “Ummmm…and who is this may I ask?”

            “It’s John Lennon.  We met at …”        

            “Ah yes.  ‘ _Too many women’_.  I expected to hear from you sooner,” the voice said lazily.  

            “Well, I don’t know why,” John said back in a flirty voice.  “I’ve got my hands full, after all.”    

            “ _Ahhh...the Beauty_ , of course.  But we all need a little spice every now and then.  Something a little…different?”    

            “Well, I don’t know about _that_ ,” John chortled.  “I just need a drinking buddy.  I’m at a loose end tonight, and want to go to a club.  Care to meet me at one?”  

            “Well, there is a discreet men’s club in Bayswater…”    

            “No.  Not a ‘men’s club’.”  John was adamant.  “A regular club.”      

            The two men settled on a popular club in central London, and John grabbed a cab.  He was deliciously excited about this dangerous liaison.  It lit him up from within.  He wasn’t going to fuck the guy; but he was looking forward to the heavy flirting.   John had never had sex with any man other than Paul, unless you counted that fumble-y experience with Brian Epstein in Spain (and John didn’t count it); truthfully, he really didn’t want to.  Paul was handful enough for any one man or woman.  But that particular night he felt neglected and rejected, and his ego needed to be stroked in a serious way.  John chuckled to himself.  He’d allow Nigel to stroke his _ego_ , but not his cock!  Still, it was a bit of a shock when he found Nigel tucked away in a private booth, two whiskey sours sitting at the ready.  Nigel looked like he might be a kind of control freak.  Not unlike ... No.  Tonight he wasn’t going to think about Paul.  He would pretend he was footloose and fancy-free.  As if he had no care in the world.      

            He slid in next to Nigel, and met his eyes head on.  John had mischief and promise in his eyes, and he saw Nigel was actually a little taken aback by John’s forwardness.  John doubted that Nigel was often taken aback.  John put his hand on Nigel’s thigh.      

            “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” John said blithely, taking a sip of the whiskey.  “It’s been a bear of a day, and I really need to relax tonight.”  John squeezed Nigel’s thigh, and smiled into his eyes.      

           Nigel, now on the defensive a little, smiled back, but not with his usual arrogance.  He was thinking of how attractive and charismatic John Lennon was.  No wonder he took the whole world by storm.  When he turned that intensity on a person, it was as if the floor fell out from under one.  Nigel actually had a twinge of concern.  He was a serial flirt, who prided himself in having arms-length relationships with a number of different men, none of whom he had ever let close to him.  But John Lennon was a real presence.  Nigel knew John had some kind of complicated ‘thing’ with Paul McCartney.  As a gay man, Nigel could see that their relationship was much more than they let the world see.  He could tell that in the very way they looked at each other.  Paul McCartney was a formidable rival, but he was married and deeply buried in the closet, so there certainly appeared to be a chance for him to get his foot in the door.  It would be perfect from Nigel’s point of view, because he didn’t want a full time relationship.  A few nights here and there would set him up for life, and such an unusual and famous lover was more than he had ever hoped for.  The money would come in handy too.  So what if John seemed to want to be the dom, (which Nigel preferred to be himself); he could grin and bear it in order to have John Lennon as his lover. Nigel wasn’t really all that into sex, it was the emotional power over another man that turned him on.  How much more exciting if that man was the world’s most famous bard?      

          John, of course, thought that Nigel was a typical nightclub cruiser who perpetrated a particularly pretentious pose.  He didn’t feel Nigel was dangerous, really, but rather that the _situation_ was dangerous.  Ships passing in the night, and all that bosh.  He leaned in close and was pleased when Nigel leaned back further in the leatherette seat in a submissive way.  John was feeling his oats, because he could never be as cocky as this with Paul. There had been too much water under their bridge for them to really role-play successfully.    

          “So.  Nigel.  What is it that you actually _do_?”  John asked, getting right into Nigel’s face.      

          “I am a dilettante,” he said with a smirk on his face.      

          “I wouldn’t brag about it, if I were you,” John smirked back.      

          Nigel waited a strategic moment and then said, “I live off of a trust fund.”

  “ _Ahhh_ , the lucky sperm club?”  John had pulled a green olive off the delicacies tray and sucked it whole into his mouth, his eyes watching Nigel’s face closely.  “And so you stay home all day?  What do you actually do with yourself, besides picking up strange men in night clubs?”    

          Nigel didn’t like the insult.  But he didn’t show it.  The rich and famous had to be catered to, even if you had to bite your tongue till it bled.  Nigel’s “trust fund” was more ‘trust’ than ‘fund’ these days, and had always been quite modest, to the point of being diminutive, so Nigel lived very carefully to keep up appearances, relying primarily on his airs and graces to convince others that he was wealthy.   He did have a “job”, of sorts.  He cleared his throat.  “I do a little bit in charity fund raising,” he said vaguely.  He stared back at John boldly, daring him to make an issue of it.      

          John was already thoroughly bored with the subject, and turned to look at the other people in the room.  “So who else in this room is queer?”  He turned to Nigel with an amused look on his face.    

          “Are you suggesting that I have some secret radar in my eyes?”  Nigel asked in his flip way.  John’s eyes flickered but he didn’t respond.  Nigel sighed and said,  “I did notice that couple next to the bar.  He seems to be more interested in that gorgeous young waiter than he is in his wife.”      

          John turned to look and soon noticed the same thing.  He looked back at Nigel and asked him, “Have you ever had sex with a woman?”

    Nigel winced.  God, he hated that question.  What was it supposed to say or prove?  “No.”  He said definitively, and without guilt.  He stared John down.      

          “Hmmm,” John murmured, “you’ve denied yourself a singular pleasure.”

   “If you say so,” Nigel bounced right back, and noted that John’s eyes lit up when the verbal tennis game started.      

          John laughed and shook his head.  “You’re a hard case, aren’t you _Nige?_ Do you like being called _Nige?_ ”      

          “I find it appalling, actually,” he drawled.  He took some studied moments to light a cigarette.  He showed John his cigarette case as if to offer him one.  John thought, _what the hell, I’m doing all sorts of naughty things tonight, why not go off the wagon with the ciggies, too?_ John leaned in to let Nigel light his cigarette.  Their eyes met.  Nigel allowed his eyes to flicker submissively for a moment.  John’s cock twitched.  A-oh.      

            They had another round of drinks, and now Nigel’s hand had made it’s way on to John’s thigh, and little by little it was making its way up towards John’s pelvic area.  John felt it happening, but stuck in an alcoholic daze he allowed himself to enjoy this forbidden pleasure.  He wondered how far Nigel would go, the little tart.  Would he go all the way?  Actually grab his cock?  And what would he, John, do if that happened?  Would he bat the hand away and act indignant, or would he let matters unfold as they would?      

          As the evening progressed, the two men’s outer thighs pressed closer together, and they leaned in to each other and were working their eyelashes and intense stares in what appeared to be the eye-fucking version of arm wrestling.  It was 3 a.m. before the two men noticed that the club was starting to empty out.  Nigel suggested they leave.  John, who was still a bit drunk, dragged himself out of his chair, and the two men headed for the front door.  When they got outside, awkward silence prevailed.  They looked at each other.  Half of John wanted to give in, just let things happen, see what was out there.  The other half was terrified.  He didn’t trust this man Nigel.  Not one tiny bit.  It could easily be a setup.      

          “So, do you want to come to mine?” Nigel asked, his arm caressing John’s back.  “We can have a night cap,” he coaxed, moving in closer, and letting his other hand run itself down John’s chest in a very feminine gesture.      

          John was not insensate.  He had a huge hard on, despite the alcoholic buzz.  But he had no intention of going to this strange man’s house.  Who knew what was there?  Recording devices?  Secret cameras?  If he were considering having sex with this man, it would have to be at Maida Vale, where he controlled the environs.      

          “Well, if you want to talk some more,” John said as though he were bored by the subject, “then you can always come to mine.”  He looked Nigel dead in the face.  “For a nightcap.”  Lennon intended to imply that a nightcap was all that was on offer.      

          Nigel had a lot of faith in his sexual allure.  He was willing to take the chance that he’d leave John’s place without actually doing anything.  He followed John into a cab, and they drove in a kind of nervous silence to the townhouse that John shared with Paul.


	6. Chapter 6

         Paul was in the middle of a loud, happy, family party.  Over in one corner was his sister-in-law in happy conversation with Linda and two of their daughters.  On the other side of the room was his brother Mike joking with several guests. There was an ocean of kids, moving like waves through the chairs, tables and grown ups.  There was laughter, music, hilarity, and warmth.  
  
         And Paul felt cold inside - desperately cold.  He had tried to call John several times in the last few days, and John never answered.  He had even thought of driving back to London just to check on him.  He desperately hoped that John wasn’t in trouble emotionally.  He had visions of John lying full out on the sofa, drunk out of his mind, having not eaten or bathed in days.  The alternative to this scenario was even more disturbing.  Was he out boozing in clubs, and getting mixed up with questionable women?  Paul would not have begrudged John a little female action – not at all.  In fact, part of him hoped John would indulge in it when they weren’t together, in order to pass the time.  But he didn’t want John showing up on the front cover of tabloids looking blasted out of his mind, with some woman proclaiming, “ _John Lennon Had Sex With My Shoe!_ ” or something equally humiliating.   Paul couldn’t get John off his mind, and the party was actually starting to get on his nerves.  He pasted the friendly smile on his face, and endured the evening, praying for it to end.

 

*****

       John had awoken the day after the club visit with a massive hangover.  He groaned loudly about it and heard a man near to him, chuckling.  _Paul!  Paul was back!_ He opened his eyes and saw – _Nigel!_  They were both naked, under the sheets, in the bed he shared with Paul.  Pockets of memories started to reveal themselves to him.  This man – this stranger – on top of him, and the two of them…  
  
         “ _Ohhhh_ …” John moaned again.  Nigel laughed again, but John’s moan was not about his headache, it was about his guilty conscience.   He wanted Nigel out of his bed, and out of his house, as soon as possible.  Then he wanted to take an hour-long shower, and then burn the sheets.  Maybe even the mattress, too!  No – the whole fucking bed!  How could he possibly allow Paul to get in this bed with him after what he had done?  John’s heart was beating at panic rate, and he didn’t stop to think about anyone else’s feelings when his mind raced like this.  
  
         “What the _fuck_?” he shouted in horror.  Nigel grimaced, but outwardly he planted on a seductive smile.  
  
         “What the fuck is right,” Nigel said in a lazy, sexy voice.  
  
         “What are you doing here?”  John shouted, still in horror.  
  
         “This is the morning after,” Nigel said, now getting a little huffy.  
  
         “The morning after _what_?”  John shouted.  
  
         He doesn’t remember any of it, Nigel thought with aggravation.  Nigel wasn’t about to be treated in this outrageous manner.  “The morning after we made love,” Nigel said softly, but dangerously.  
  
         “Nothing we did – _whatever_ we did – had anything to do with love!” John shouted.  
  
         Nigel swallowed hard.  Maybe John was one of those would-be straights who felt guilty after gay sex, and needed to be ironed out.  “It might not have been _love_ , but it was incredibly satisfying,” Nigel purred in a low, alluring voice.  
  
         It was lost on John, who was suddenly flooded with panic.  “Get out of here!” John roared at Nigel.  “Get the fuck out!”  
  
         Nigel sat back in angry shock.  “You _what?_ ”  He forgot his posh accent for a moment.  He grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to the top of his chest.  
  
         “You heard me!  Get the fuck out of here!  You took advantage of me – I was drunk out of my mind!”  
  
         “Your hard-on wasn’t drunk,” Nigel drawled, regaining some of his aplomb.  “And neither was your orgasm.”  
  
         “Get out!” John yelled again.  He wasn’t about to get up stark naked and traipse about in front of this man.  
  
         “Well, of course I will.  I won’t stay where I’m not wanted.  But really, John, it isn’t the end of the world.  So we fucked, big deal?  What did you expect when we went home together?  Did you think we were going to play pinochle?  I rode your cock until we both came.  I’m willing to have a go again, so you can remember it this time.”  
  
         John was shaking with rage and shock.  “No!  Get out!  Get out!”  
  
         With that, Nigel, got up, and without shyness walked naked across the room, picked up his clothing, and disappeared into the bathroom to dress.  
  
         As Nigel dressed in the bathroom, John quickly jumped up and found his terry bathrobe.  He swathed himself in the overlarge garment, and then sat down on the side of the bed.  Nigel came out, looking as though he had stepped out of a bandbox.  He looked completely unperturbed.  
  
         John stalked into the bathroom, glaring at Nigel as he went, and saying in a low tone, “I won’t show you out.  You’ll find the way.”  He then slammed the bathroom door shut.  A moment later Nigel heard the shower running.  _John can’t wait to wash me down the drain_ , Nigel thought bitterly.  
  
         Nigel shrugged and started down the stairs.  All the alcohol last night was a bad idea.  He had given John one hell of a blowjob – something Nigel particularly didn’t like to do – and the man didn’t even remember it.  What a waste of his pride!  But he smiled to himself as he thought of the lie he had left with John – that they had fucked.  In truth, John was so drunk he found it very difficult to get hard, which had necessitated the blowjob.  That lie ought to give the guy an ulcer.  As he reached the ground level, the telephone rang.  There it was, right in the front hallway.  It rang several times, and Nigel thought – with a bit of mischief – _John’s in the shower, I’ll answer the phone._  
  
         “Hello?” He answered, using his sexiest voice.  
  
         “Oh.  Hullo.  Who’s this?”  A much sexier male voice was on the other end.  The sound of it – the tone – was musical.  
  
         “This is Nigel,” he said succinctly.  
  
         “I see.”  There was a confused pause.  “Is John there?”  
  
         “We’ve just gotten up, and he’s in the shower,” Nigel said in a lazy voice.  He knew who this was.  It was McCartney, of course.  Might as well put the cat in among the pigeons.  Nigel yawned ostentatiously.  “I’m just fixing our breakfast now.  It’s scandalously late, I know, but we were so cozy under the duvet.  Who is this calling, please?”  
  
         “I’m, er, a friend of his.”  
  
         “Shall I take a message?” Nigel asked, as if he were the owner of the home and the telephone.  
  
         “No, that’s all right.  I’ll call back later.”  The voice sounded worried and confused.  Nigel smiled.  This was the perfect revenge.  He had prostrated himself for John Lennon.  He had acted the soft boy, and sucked the man’s dick - disgusting uncircumcised sheath and all. Nigel had barely been able to hold back his gag reflex.  And then he had been humiliated this morning, with John treating him like a common rent boy.  He felt that entitled him to cause a rift between John and his beloved Paul.  It would in fact be perfect revenge.  Nigel slammed the door as he left.  He didn’t leave empty handed.  He had something to hold over the great John Lennon, and it might come in handy some rainy day.  And he had another idea that he felt would cause the haughty John Lennon even more anxiety and pain, while solving all of Nigel’s problems.

 

*****

  
        The party went on forever.  It finally ended.  Paul dragged himself to bed, and then lay there the whole night thinking about John. It was the next day at noon when he picked up the phone and tried calling John.   The rest of the family was out on the lawn cavorting or lingering over a long brunch.  Paul felt a bit like a guilty teenager, hiding in the closet calling his inamorata – the one of whom his parents didn’t approve.  
  
         The phone rang several times before a strange man’s voice answered the phone.   Paul’s weird mood quickly dissolved into bewilderment as the man revealed his name, that John and he had just awakened, and that it was “cozy under the duvet.”   Paul had hung up in a daze.  This was the last thing Paul had expected:  John having an affair with another man in Paul’s absence.  And what if this man had successfully supplanted him?  An unfamiliar twinge of jealousy shot down his spine. It had been bad enough when John had swanned off with Yoko, but to be left for another _man_?  
  
         Still lost in a cloud of unpleasant surprise, Paul wandered out into the yard.  He looked as though he had just received terrible news, and Linda noticed it immediately.  She quickly took him aside.  
  
         “What’s wrong?  What’s happened?”  
  
         “Nothing, nothing,” Paul demurred, and then prevaricated.  “I’ve just had a bad realization.   My composition is absolute crap.  It’s total crap.”  
  
         Linda rolled her eyes.  If she had a dime for every time Paul had emotional breakdowns over his music, she’d be a…well, she already was a…but, the point was, Paul had subjected her to so many of these _cris de coeur_ , she had a hard time taking them seriously.  “This is not the time to be obsessing about work, Paul,” she said reasonably.  “We have the family here.  Relax!  Your worries will still be here when the family’s gone.”  
  
         Paul summoned up a strained smile, and found a seat at an outdoor table next to his brother.  All around him was laughter and good cheer.  And the only thing he could think of was the taunting voice of the mysterious “Nigel.”  
  
         Paul managed to get through the rest of the day without calling John.  He had begun to feel angry.  Another man - in _their_ home!   In their _bed_!   Answering the fucking phone!  Making the fucking breakfast in _their_ kitchen!  Paul had only been gone for 2 ½ weeks.  It wasn’t as if he had abandoned John in the wilderness to the wolves!  How much more disrespectful could John be?  Paul twitched as he thought of “ _How Do You Sleep?”_ In truth Paul knew that there really weren’t any limits to the disrespect John was willing to show him, either privately or publicly.  And then, following quickly after that, the irony of this happening to _him_ rushed in.  He – the very man who had done the same thing countless times to Jane Asher – was getting a taste of his own bad medicine.  And who said there was no such thing as karma?  
  
         The next day, Paul felt himself falling into a deep depression.  He hid in his music room, and at points was blinded by the tears gathering in his eyes.  He would angrily brush them away, determined not to give in to the pain of John’s disloyalty.  Women were one thing.  But bringing another man into their bed was beyond the pale.  It was unforgiveable.  
  
         The day after that, Paul had convinced himself that he could never go back to Maida Vale.  He could not step foot in that house again.  It was now forever tainted.  And, what’s more, since John had found it easy to cheat on him in this way, Paul figured it most likely meant that he no longer wanted or needed Paul the way he had done before.  No point in going back to that place now, knowing how easily replaceable he was to John.  
  
         On one level, Paul knew he was being melodramatic.  But this had honestly never happened to him before.  None of his lovers had ever left him for someone else.  This was a very unpleasant sensation, this being dumped thing.  How arrogant he had been to think that John wouldn’t be able to find satisfaction with another male lover.  He had cherished this belief all through the ‘70s, even as John trashed him in the press.  Paul had believed no _man_ could replace him in John’s heart.  He had really been a fool about it all.  Sitting alone, again, in his music room, Paul drew in a deep breath.  The tears had stopped.  Now he had the 1000-yard stare.  This was it.  He wasn’t stuck between two people who loved him unreservedly anymore.  He no longer had to feel like the last chair in a game of musical chairs.  How silly his old concerns seemed now.  
  
         Linda felt like Paul had abruptly disappeared into some kind of zombie land.  He was unresponsive, and his smiles came too late, and were too watery to be convincing.  So, she understood, it was really over with John, and now it was sinking in.  And next would come the depression, and the lack of interest in life itself.  She’d been through it with Paul once, and now it looked as though she would have to go through it again.   She really hadn’t seen it coming.  But John and Paul were like two unreliable chemical agents.  They might mix and create beautiful – even magical - things, or explode and leave bits and pieces of bone and flesh all over the ceiling and walls.   She made a point of holding Paul tight that night.  His back was to her, and she wrapped him in her arms.  She nuzzled his neck and kissed his back.  
  
         Paul was benumbed.  He felt Linda’s tender gestures and appreciated them.  But his eyes remained dry, sore and open as he contemplated his future.  A future without John.  He had stared down that dark tunnel before, and remembered all of the bleak details.  He had only just recently begun to believe he would never have to see that barren landscape again.  But, yet again, life had proven itself to be just one big Keystone Kops scene after the other, with banana peels littered everywhere for unsuspecting hapless blokes to step on…

 

*****

  
        The townhouse had been thoroughly scoured from top to bottom.  There were brand new sheets on the bed, and the mattress had been turned.  Every bottle of alcohol in the house had been emptied down the drain, and the empties carted away.  John had not stepped outside the townhouse even once since the housekeeper had finished erasing all vestiges of Nigel and Marnie and all the other women he had slept with in the last three weeks.  John was consumed with guilt.  How could he have done this to Paul?  Yes, Paul had left him there to go off and be Family Man, but that had been part of their deal.  John had agreed to it.  
  
         It was time for Paul to come home, but Paul hadn’t called him.  John felt nervous about doing it, but finally decided he’d have to call Paul, to find out when he would be back in London.  John had no intention of telling Paul what had happened in his absence.  What Paul didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.  It had all been the result of a prolonged bender, that’s all.  He dialed Paul’s number in Sussex, and one of the girls answered.  John introduced himself and asked if he could talk to Paul.  John could hear the girl shouting “Daddy!  Uncle John’s on the phone!”  This made John feel guilty.  In a weird way it felt as though he had betrayed Paul’s family, too.  There was a long wait on the other end, and John held his breath.  He prepared himself for the cheerful “I’m in the bosom of my family” Paul voice that he resented so much.  This time he wasn’t going to be sticky about it.  He would be so grateful to hear Paul’s voice, and know that soon he would be home, that he would overlook how much he loved his family.  This was no time for John’s usual self-pity to rear its ugly head.  Finally he could hear someone picking up the receiver, and a moment later an unrecognizably flat and dry voice.  
  
         “John?”  The voice asked, in a desultory way.  
  
         “Paul!” John responded, infusing his voice with all the enthusiasm and warmth that Paul should have had in his voice.  “It’s been ages!  Christ – I barely recall what you look like!”  John chuckled a little.  
  
         Paul snickered.  He could have said any number of ironic things in response to that comment, but chose not to.  In fact, he didn’t respond at all.  
  
         John felt uncertain.  “Paul?  Aren’t you coming home tomorrow?”  
  
         Paul felt a pang.  Why was John doing this to him?  Was John planning to play him out for a while before letting him down?  Maximum humiliation?  
  
         “Paul?”  John’s voice sounded concerned; not so sure.  
  
         “ _Home?_ ”  Paul finally asked.  He put a wealth of feeling into the word ‘home’.  
  
         John was confused and deeply worried now.  “Are you coming back here tomorrow, Paul?”  John’s voice was a hoarse whisper.  He added, suddenly shy, “I’ve missed you.  I’ve been looking forward to it.”  
  
         Paul heard the words, but had a hard time believing them.  He didn’t want to sound like a jealous sod.  He never found jealousy to be an attractive trait in a person, and although he had experienced envy of others’ success, his only brushes with jealousy had involved John Lennon and all of his intense crushes on other people’s creative minds.  It had never been a sexual jealousy.  It had been jealousy over their creative partnership, and the emotional intimacy they shared.  To Paul, sex had never been something to be possessive about.  Until now.  
  
         “Are you sure there’s room for me, John?” Paul finally asked in a voice as cold as he could make it.  
  
         “Room?  What are you on about?”  
  
         “I wouldn’t want to displace your houseguest.”  
  
         John was struck dumb.  Houseguest?  How did Paul know about the people he had allowed to stay?  Surely he could know nothing about Nigel… “There’s no one here, Paul, and I’m not quite sure what you’re implying…”  
  
         “Your friend Nigel?”  
  
         John’s heart went ice cold.  “Wha - ?”  John’s voice sounded incredulous, but Paul also heard the frightened guilt in it.  
  
         “I called a few days ago.  Nigel answered.  He explained that the two of you had difficulty getting up, since everything was so cozy in the bed.”  
  
         “Nigel?  On the phone?”  
  
         “He said you were in the shower.”  Paul’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.  
  
         The penny dropped.  Paul must have called when he was in the shower, after he had kicked Nigel out.  And Nigel, being the bitch that he was, had gone ahead and left a false trail…well, at least the impression he had left of the two of them cozily shacked up together was a false impression.  “Paul, that was just an asshole hanger-on after a night of too much drinking.  I had ordered him out of the house, and he was just pissing all over me when he said those things.”  John’s voice was shaking.  
  
         “I see.”  Paul’s voice sounded deeply untrusting.  
  
         “Don’t be silly, Paul.  I’m guilty of drinking myself under the table several times while you were gone, but I haven’t been shacking up with anyone…” John remembered Marnie’s four-day visit and stopped.  “Come home, now, Paul.  It’s been too long, and I’m dying to see you.”  
  
         Despite himself, Paul felt hope rising in his throat.  It was possible.  Lots of mean people attached themselves to celebrities, taking advantage of their largesse, and then stabbed them in the back.  It had happened to Paul many times, too.  Paul really wanted to believe it.  He didn’t want to believe that John was through with him.  Still, he felt a little suspicious and not quite comfortable with John’s quick excuses.  
  
         “We can talk about your concerns, Paul,” John said softly, “when you get home.  But you’ve been gone too long, and you need to come back.  Tomorrow.”  John could feel Paul softening on the other end, and pressed his point home.  
  
         Finally, Paul spoke.  “I’ll leave here at around half ten,” he said with a marked lack of enthusiasm.  “I should arrive by half twelve.”  Paul let the dry comment hang in the air.  
  
         John heaved a quiet sigh of relief.  “I’ll be waiting at the door.  I’ve really missed you.”  
  
         “Well, see you tomorrow John.”  
  
         “Drive safely, luv.”  John said.  Paul hung up the phone and the line went dead.  John stood there feeling empty and scared.  Something told him Paul was coming back to tell him goodbye.  There had been an unfamiliar tone in the voice…the tone Paul had always used for friends and business associates who had betrayed him:  polite but cold.  And John _had_ betrayed him - maybe not emotionally, but certainly physically.  Still, they were grown men, and such things should not come between them.  It would be childish of Paul to be resentful of John’s little flings, seeing as how he was married and still in love with his wife!  
  
         John grunted, but he couldn’t quite work himself up in to the lather of righteous indignation that he’d hoped for.  His lifelong core fear was still there – right in front of him.  It was the fear that he might have lost Paul, and this time not even to Linda, but to his own stupid inability to hold his drink.


	7. Chapter 7

         Paul left Rye a little later than he had planned.  He had a difficult time saying goodbye to his family, because they represented security and loyalty to him, and now he was headed for…what?  He didn’t know.  He had let some poltergeist loose when he had decided to leave John alone in London for a while.  It had seemed like such a good idea at the time; surely, John would realize that a little independence was a good thing.  But clearly John hadn’t been ready for this step yet, and Paul had misjudged the situation.  
  
         He had promised to arrive in Maida Vale by half twelve, and he was still on target if the traffic wasn’t too bad in London.  He didn’t want to arrive late, because he knew this would cause John anxiety.  Whatever it was that John had gotten up to in his absence, he could hardly have gone far enough yet to be sanguine about losing Paul entirely.  Even if he had found another man he was interested in, Paul knew John well enough to realize that he would cling to Paul at least until he was 100% ready to jump to the other bloke’s ship.  Paul really didn’t want to be used in this way, but if he was going to be a friend to John, he guessed he didn’t have an alternative.  Having persuaded John to leave New York behind, and set up a home in England, he couldn’t very well just abandon him to his fate.  
  
         Paul reminded himself that John denied that he’d slept with this Nigel.   This was the only reason Paul had been able to get in the car and go back to London.  Paul hoped it was true, but also knew that John was capable of almost any outrage if he was drunk or high enough.  Paul had been an eyewitness to such behavior enough times to be sure of that.  
  
         Still, in the past, John had always been honest about his crushes and affairs.  He hadn’t spared Paul’s feelings even a little bit by softening the blows.  There was that time in Hamburg, when they’d gone to dinner, the five Silver Beatles, and John had immediately snuggled up against Stu Sutcliffe, his arm around Stu’s shoulders protectively, and Paul was stuck between George and Pete at the other end of the table.  At several points during the evening, John’s eyes had met his and John had communicated – what – it was as if John was saying _he’s in your place now.  How does it feel?_ It had felt terrible.  And that was before they were lovers!  It had only been about wanting to be John’s best friend in those innocent days.  And of course there was the time John played a tape of Yoko and him having sex in front of all of them at EMI, arguing that it would make a good record.  Paul was the one who knew the whole scenario had been dreamed up by John to hurt him, and only him.  John had stared at Paul throughout the whole tape, and his eyes had sent the same cruel message:  _she’s in your place now.  How does it feel_?  Paul had managed to maintain his cool, feigning an objective indifference, and uttering the damning words, “That’s… _interesting._ ”  John had not been amused.  
  
         No, John wouldn’t lie to spare his feelings.  If he had slept with another man, he would have admitted it openly, and even enjoyed the pain he would see in Paul’s eyes as a result.  Paul felt some of his anxiety melting away.  He had allowed himself to fret for days over nothing.  


 

*****

  
        As he had promised, John was waiting for him as he parked in the mews.  He had thrown open the back door and was waiting on the stoop.  All of Paul’s anxieties seemed to wing away the moment he saw John’s loopy smile.  He grabbed his bag and hurried over to where John was waiting.  He didn’t want to make a scene right there in the mews, so he urged John to step backward into the house and then closed the door behind them, and instantly John was in his arms.  The embrace was certainly passionate, and there was no doubt that John was happy to see him, as Mae West used to say, because his huge boner was rubbing up against Paul’s not-yet-fully-aroused member.  And John’s tongue was so far down his throat that Paul couldn’t make a sound.  Soon he was pushed up against the wall, and John hands were all over him.  He hadn’t even put his bag down yet!  Realizing this fact, Paul opened his palm, and the bag fell to the floor with a thud.  This loud sound echoing in the back hall did nothing to deter John, whose breathing had become very heavy as he continued to maul Paul’s mouth.  
  
         Finally, John came up for air for a moment and Paul laughed, “Maybe I should go away more often!”  And then – wham! Paul was forced back against the wall as John slammed into him again.  Paul allowed himself to be manhandled for a few more moments, and finally persuaded John to give it a rest for a few moments.  “I was going to ask if you missed me, but it seems that you did,” he chuckled.  
  
         John snorted and said, “You were gone three whole weeks Paul.  Don’t ever do that to me again.”  John looked intense as he said this; Paul had been in a joking mood, and was surprised to see that John was dead serious.  He was glaring accusingly at Paul.  Of course, Paul didn’t know that John was thinking that none of the horrible things he’d done in Paul’s absence would have happened if Paul hadn’t irresponsibly left him alone, so to the extent he betrayed Paul at all, it was all Paul’s fault!  
  
         Paul saw the accusation in John’s eyes, but took it on face value.  “I did invite you to join me for the last week,” he pointed out reasonably.  
  
         John just grunted before grabbing Paul’s arm, pulling him up the stairs, and muttering, “Upstairs.  Now.  I want you on your back.”  John wanted to reassert his possessory interest as soon as possible.  At the moment if John had a branding iron available, he might just have burned “Property of John Lennon” on to Paul’s butt cheeks.  
  
         Paul’s eyebrows nearly flew off his forehead in reaction to John’s demanding words.  _So!  We’re back to Dom John again!  This ought to be fun!_ It had been a long time since John had taken control of him like this, and Paul was thinking to himself _it’s about fucking time!_ Paul of course didn’t know that John’s actions in reasserting his position in Paul’s life were based on the guilt he felt because he had cheated on Paul.  And if John had anything to say about it, Paul would _never_ find out about it.  John knew that Paul would never forgive him for sleeping with another man, although he would probably forgive him for the women.  John didn’t intend to talk much about the women, either.  Paul didn’t need to know how John had literally lost control of both his mind and his genitals during the weeks Paul was away.  
  
         As soon as Paul’s back hit the bed, John was straddling him, yanking off items of clothing.  He yanked off his own shirt, and then yanked off Paul’s.  He started on Paul’s trousers and pants, unbuckling the belt, and working on the zipper.  He yanked them down to below Paul’s knees, and then pulled his own trousers down.  He then prodded Paul until Paul turned over on his tummy, and immediately his finger starting probing Paul’s anus, and slathering him with lube.  
  
         Paul was surprised at how tight he felt there, and that it was vaguely unpleasant.  Too much time had gone by since the last time, and it was as if his body forgot what to expect.  He was just processing this realization when John abruptly pushed his cock in, and immediately started pumping and thrusting.  Paul shouted out in pain, but John – if he heard it – took it to be pleasure, and just increased his pace.  The intensity of the bumping and grinding was filling Paul’s insides with fire.  Paul couldn’t figure out if it was a good or a bad burning sensation, but decided he’d see the bright side.  He allowed his pelvic area to relax, and, closing his eyes tightly, thought about the delicious naughtiness of John fucking him up his arse.  Soon Paul was fighting off an orgasm – surprisingly so, since he hadn’t really ever had one from a butt fuck alone.  
  
         The inner drive to reassert dominion over Paul had driven John right to the edge of an orgasm.  He could tell Paul was there, too.  So he decided to come right where he was, instead of withdrawing.  The thought of Paul’s bum with his cum oozing out of it filled him with a thrill that drove the point home.  
  
         Paul felt the warm wetness inside him, and his eyes shot open.  It was an embarrassing kind of turn on, and he allowed the slight humiliation he felt to feed his pending orgasm, and soon he was spilling all over the sheet below him, and making the most uninhibited and embarrassing sounds while he did so.  
  
         John heard the sounds, felt Paul’s spasms, and grinned wolfishly to himself.  He had conquered Mt. Paul again, and had victoriously planted his flag at the summit.  Paul was utterly his, and this was just as it should be.  
  
         John pulled himself off Paul, and then allowed himself to flop down on the bed beside his still heaving lover.  John allowed his hand to delicately dance down Paul’s spine, and then to come to rest on Paul’s butt crack possessively.  “ _Mine_ ,” he thought proudly to himself.   Gradually, Paul’s breathing was becalmed, but he lay, exhausted, on his stomach, submissively permitting John to caress, grab and lightly smack his bottom at random and with possessive abandon.  It was a lovely calm after the storm.  
  
         After several quiet moments, Paul finally stirred, and, groaning with great effort, turned over on to his back and then winced from his sore ass, but also from the cold surprise under him.  “I’m right on the wet spot, John,” he grumbled.  John chuckled and moved further to the right so Paul could move out of the cold, wet spot.  _Been there, done that_ , thought John.  Paul then moved on to his side and, putting his arm across John’s chest, nestled his head into the nape of John’s neck and sighed.  This made John smile.  Their eyes grew heavier, and first one and then the other had gently slipped over the edge of consciousness, into the waterfall of sleep.  It wasn’t even 2 p.m. and they were both dead to the world.

 

*****

  
        That evening, they made their favorite scrambled eggs for a light meal, and then cozied up on the sitting room sofa almost on top of each other, their limbs entwined.  John was unwilling to allow any space between him and Paul after the scary time apart, and Paul was relieved that he was still wanted.  
  
         “So what did you get up to while I was gone?” Paul finally asked lightly, as he sipped some whiskey.  
  
         John nearly choked on his sip of whiskey.  “I hung out with Pete Townshend and a group of his friends a few nights,” John said, which was true as far as it went, “and I went to dinner with Ringo once, and over to George and Ruth’s one night.   I went to book stores, clubs, cafes.”  
  
         “Sounds pretty entertaining,” Paul said neutrally.  A silence fell over them  “And…this Nigel person?”  
  
         John had been waiting for this.  He had his lie all worked out, long in advance, and had even practiced it in his head, so John’s half-absent-minded and half-irritated tone of voice sounded quite natural to Paul.  “What an asshole,” John said in a flat, bored, irritated grumble.  “He was one of a bunch of people I met at a club, and they came back here one night, and this bloke wouldn’t leave.  I was blotto.  In the morning, I kicked him out.  He was mad about that, and I guess that’s why he said those things to you on the phone.”  
  
         Paul made a slight nod of his head, thinking it all was quite believable.  _But…_ ”It was kind of strange he implied _he_ had slept with you, though, rather than implying you had slept with some woman.”  
  
         John hadn’t expected this nuance.  He scrambled for a believable response.  He found one.  “The guy is queer, so of course that is where he would go with it…”  
  
         Paul heard this, and decided it was believable.  He decided to drop the subject once and for all.  He grew a little coy.  “So, your schedule was so full, I’m amazed that you found any time to miss me.”  
  
         “Oh, you’re fishing now.  You’re totally fishing.”  John was filled with elation.  Paul had accepted his lies, and was moving on.  John swore to himself that he never would put himself in a position like that again.  Paul was far too precious to him to fuck everything up merely because he was drunk and resentful on a given night.  
  
         Paul was chuckling at John’s reaction, and was growing playful.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about – _fishing_.  Clubs, cafes, dinners out…and here you had me feeling so guilty!  I had pictured you stretched out alone on the sofa, moaning sadly to yourself!”  
  
         John laughed and said, “You shouldn’t be so neglectful of me, babe, because you know how I get when I’m left to my own devices.”  
  
         Paul sat forward, loosening his arms from around John for a moment and staring straight at John.  “I wasn’t neglecting you, John.  I had been neglecting my family.  I needed to fix that.  It has to be in harmony, or it won’t work.  Is that going to be enough for you?”  Paul’s beautiful dark eyes were deeply serious, and John knew Paul was laying down a line in the sand.  
  
         “It will have to be,” John responded softly, stroking Paul’s cheek with gentle fingers, and then allowing those fingers to linger on Paul’s pouty lips.  “Because I can’t live without you, Paul.  It’s as pathetic as that.”  Now John’s eyes were deeply serious, and meeting Paul’s eyes evenly and without subterfuge.  
  
         Paul’s head nodded slightly in the affirmative.  He didn’t know what to say about that.  _Pathetic._ Is that how he made John feel?  Paul’s heart ached.  He certainly didn’t want to make John feel that way.  It couldn’t be further from his intent.  But, putting himself in John’s shoes, he could understand how difficult it would be to have to share the one you love with someone else.  Linda had told him pretty much the same thing when he had held her in his arms just a week earlier.  It was starting to get heavy again, and Paul felt the anxiety flitting around in his stomach.  There was no solution to this dilemma, and he honestly didn’t know what was right or wrong any more:  to love them both, and force them to share in this painful way?  Or should be turn his back on one of them, and then not only hurt the abandoned one, but also hurt _himself_ , (because to lose either of these two supremely important people would feel like a death blow to Paul)?  
  
         John felt the coldness that ran through Paul like a sudden chill, and swore at himself for saying the guilt-inducing remark.  He started rubbing his hands along Paul’s back, and he whispered, “Hey, luv, you’ve gone cold all of a sudden.  Come back here and let me hold you.”  
  
         Obediently, Paul leaned back into John’s arms, his head again nestled in the nape of John’s neck, his nose breathing in John’s comforting scent, and he felt John’s arms tightening around him, and slowly the warmth of feeling began simmering inside him again.   The dilemma was not solved, and had not gone away.  But it didn’t require a solution at this exact moment, so he could permit himself to be cosseted and protected in the circle of John’s strong and possessive arms.   

  
*****

  
        Their two weeks together went by quickly, with each of them holding the other one tighter than they had before, because they now sensed that what they had together was vulnerable.  And Paul still had to broach the subject of his going back to Sussex for a while again.  He knew that this time he had to offer John the opportunity to come with him, because neither of them wanted to go through the ugliness of their last separation.  Surprisingly, when invited, John declined.  
  
         “I’ve been selfish,” John said to Paul quietly from across the breakfast table.  “It’s only two weeks.  I’ll survive.  But let’s talk every night – I need to know I will hear from you before I go to bed.”  Paul readily agreed to this reasonable request.  After all, he talked at least once a day to Linda and his kids when he was with John; sometimes more often than that.  He was also quietly relieved that he, too, would hear John’s voice every day.  They settled upon 10:30 p.m. as their time to talk.  John was thinking this would insure that he wouldn’t stay out too late drinking, or end up in bed with someone else; he had a contract now that he had to live up to.  Paul was thinking that he was going to have to be strategic with Linda – sometimes she wanted to go to bed early, and it would be awkward to have to excuse himself from their bed, sneak out somewhere and call John, and then sneak back into the bed.  It was going to be – at the very least – interesting.  Ultimately, he decided he would just have to tell Linda up front that 10:30 p.m. was his time to talk to John.  Far easier to just be honest.  Paul was finally figuring out some of the intricacies of living this tandem-life.  
  
         So the day came for Paul to head back to Sussex, and John and Paul said their goodbyes just inside the back door.  John tried his utmost not to appear downtrodden and miserable.  He didn’t want the last look on Paul’s face as he went out the door to be filled with guilt.  Instead, he adopted his wiseass persona, informing Paul as he turned to leave the house, “Hurry up, man, leave, I’ve got a woman coming any minute.  I don’t want her to see you.”  
  
         Paul laughed and said, “I’ll bet not.  If she sees _me_ , she won’t want _you_ anymore!”  
  
         “ _Oi, you_!” John yelped, and smacked Paul on his bum as he laughingly slipped out the door.  As soon as the door closed, John’s smile left his face, and he hurried to the breakfast room window to watch Paul as he got in his car and drove away.  
  
         John was afraid.  He was afraid that he wouldn’t do well on his own, and that he’d fuck everything up again.  But he also had a sense of determination inside him, warring with the fear, and wanting to learn how to live alone in his own skin, without relying on people, places or substances to prop him up.  He had been giving it a lot of thought, and had even done some quiet homework to find a therapist to help him with his anxiety and fear of abandonment.  He had finally realized that he could never be happy with Paul, or make Paul happy, until he had dealt with this boa constrictor-like possessiveness of his.  He hadn’t mentioned this to Paul, because he wasn’t sure he would be able to follow through with it, or even that it would work out if he did go through with it, and he didn’t want to leave Paul with false hope.  But his first appointment with this new therapist was for later that day, and John was hopeful that he might eventually find a way out of the maze he was in.

 

*****

  
        John had chosen another woman as a therapist, consciously trying to recreate the relationship he had established with Ruth, in New York.  He also realized he could never unburden himself in front of a man, since he would eventually have to reveal his homo-leaning bisexuality, and expose his relationship with Paul.  Somehow, John thought a woman therapist was safer, less likely to judge his masculinity than a man would be.   Her office was located not far from Harley Street, on Baker Street.  It was conveniently close to the townhouse.  
  
         John’s first impression of this woman – Fiona - was that she was not at all like Ruth.  First, she was clearly not a lesbian, like Ruth was.  And she was quite attractive, in an exotic way.  John actually thought to himself as they made the awkward small talk of a first-therapy-session-introduction, _I could fuck her_.  John’s next thought was _this isn’t a good idea_.  He wouldn’t be able to tell this woman his innermost and even, in some cases, shameful secrets if he was attracted to her.  He’d be too busy showing off, acting macho, and trying to get her into bed. His hopes began to sag.  She came highly recommended by people he respected, but it began to feel as though it was a no-go.  
  
         After the small talk finished, the therapist asked in a quiet but warm voice, “Have you had therapy before, John?”  
  
         “Yes.  Well, years ago I tried Janov, but I guess that doesn’t count,” John laughed, and the therapist smiled in an objective way.  “But I had some months of therapy like this back in New York about 2 to 3 years ago.”  
  
         “Did you find it helpful?”  
  
         “Yeah, I guess, but…” John stopped to gather his thoughts.  He wasn’t quite sure how to answer this question.  It seemed like a simple question, but it was actually very complex.  The silence went on for several moments.  
  
         “But…?” The therapist asked softly, her face managing to convey a comfortable invitation to confide.  
  
         “ _But…_ I went there for a different reason than why I’m coming here now.”  John’s convoluted thoughts pushed themselves out, and after they did, John looked up at the therapist with confusion on his face – as if he didn’t really know what he was saying, or even what he _meant_ to say.  
  
         “And what was that reason?” The therapist asked.  
  
         John stalled.  How to explain?  After a long pause, John ventured an explanation.  “I wanted something to hold me together during a difficult time.  And, since that is all I really wanted at the time, I would have to say the therapy was successful.” John felt relieved that he had finally been able to form an intelligible sentence.  
  
         The therapist considered his answer for a moment, and nodded respectfully.  “And now – what is it that you want from therapy now?”  The therapist had almost said ‘need’ instead of ‘want,’ but something about this patient told her that he would reject the notion of his ‘needing’ the therapy.  This would cause him to push her away.  So she used the word ‘want’ instead, which implied the therapy was optional, not necessary.  
  
         “This time I think I want to find out why I’m such a fucked up person,” John said, and then made a goofy grin to rob the sentence of the solemnity it deserved.  
  
         “To me it seems that you are immensely successful - hardly ‘fucked up’,” the therapist pointed out in an objective tone of voice.  
  
         John felt the now or never moment in all of its fullness.  If he allowed this line of questioning to go forward, he would be tacitly accepting Fiona as his therapist.  If he instead continued with flip responses to just use up the hour and be gone, he would be deciding to try a different therapist.  He wavered there at the no-turning-back point, and then chose to dive in.  He had a connection with this woman, even if it was – at first blush – a sexual attraction.  Maybe it could grow to be a different kind of connection – one that would allow him to be more open with her than he’d ever been with Ruth.  It was worth a try, at least.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's therapy allows him to consider working with Paul again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions to discuss:
> 
> 1) If John and Paul wrote together in the '80s, do you think they would have been successful, or would they have "ruined" their reputation?  
> 2) In order to work together again, what changes/compromises would each of them have to have made in order for the partnership to succeed?
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!

       Several months after John had returned to therapy, he had finally become relatively comfortable in the process.  Although he still found himself falling back into his avoidance tactics periodically, and sometimes he treated his therapist with contempt and hostility, for the most part he forced himself to be on his best behavior, and to cooperate with his treatment.  That entire ugly episode with Nigel had made a huge impression on John.  He had so nearly blown his entire life to pieces, and it had served as a particularly alarming wake up call.  This time, John was approaching his therapy with a real sense of purpose.  
  
         It was springtime, 1986, and Paul was in the attic music room, composing.  He had put the classical music aside for a breather, and had been working very steadily on developing material for a new solo album.   It had been a few years since he had tackled new pop compositions with such intensity; Paul supposed it was because he had been so utterly preoccupied with maintaining something akin to balance in the hurly burly of his personal life.  With two major love interests vying for his attention, not to mention all the children, Paul had found it almost impossible to concentrate on his music.  But John had adapted to the new regime of two weeks on and two weeks off, and was no longer sending Paul on scary roller coaster rides each time they had to part.  Sometimes John came with him to Sussex, sometimes Linda and the kids were in London (and Paul would stay at Cavendish with them), Sean would live with them for two months at a time, three times a year, and sometimes the McCartneys and Lennons would vacation together, which was John’s favorite situation. In fact, the moment John had decided to accept the fact that Paul was never going to neglect his family, life had become far more predictable and sane for Paul.  Hence, he was again – for the first time in a long time - immersed in the throes of his first true love: music.  
  
         John had noticed Paul’s dedication and recommitment to his work and was deeply envious of it.  He had moments when he wanted to burst in to the music room and demand to participate, but his courage never permitted him to take that dramatic step.  John thought about this conundrum as he sat in his therapist’s waiting room one breezy spring afternoon.   Today he decided to finally bring up the subject of his relationship with Paul with the therapist – but only to the extent of his desire to try working with him again.  In his therapy thus far, John had focused solely on his strange childhood and his two unhappy marriages, avoiding completely any discussion about Paul, his present living situation, or anything to do with Paul or John’s inability to work.  
  
         The therapist was pleased to see that John was there on time, and apparently in a businesslike mood.  Every fourth or fifth session the “other John” would show up, and she dreaded those interactions.  For a therapist, navigating through such a session was like a high wire act over a raging river with no net.  The worst part was that John usually pulled out these antics right after a truly productive session, exactly when the follow up session could have led to a significant break-through.  Instead, he would obfuscate, quarrel, withhold, and generally behave like a complete and total asshole.  The therapist knew of course that John did this to protect himself from the scary impending disclosures, but it was sad to watch such a brilliant, charismatic, funny and warm person torturing himself like that.  
  
         John settled on the comfy sofa, resting the ankle of one leg on top of the knee of the other.   He quickly told the therapist he had a topic he wanted to discuss.  This surprised the therapist because for weeks now they had been slogging through the thorny issue of John’s difficulties with women, and how that was connected to the unusual relationships he had with his mother and aunt.  She had assumed they would pick up the thread from the previous session and keep slogging along at the snail’s pace John had set for his sessions.  
  
         “What would you like to talk about?”  The therapist asked, without showing in her voice or expression her excitement that John had come prepared with a topic.  
  
         “Music.”  John said.  
  
         _This should not have surprised me_ , the therapist thought to herself.  In fact, it was strange that she had not previously noted that one of the world’s most famous songwriters hadn’t even mentioned his work even once in all these months of therapy!  
  
         John was explaining.  “I need to get back to it on a regular basis.  I’ve been saying this for years – a decade, actually – but right now it feels as though I really mean it.”  
  
         “What made you stop working regularly?”  
  
         John thought about it.  “Life.”  His eyes met the therapist’s and he said, “Life happened.  The stuff that happened messed with my head.”  
  
         “Such as?”  
  
         “That whole break-up of the band thing.”  John didn’t explain what band; the therapist knew which one it was, right along with the rest of the world, so there was no need.  “It was all so ugly, and for years it filled me with rage.”  
  
         “Just rage?  Were there other feelings too?”  
  
         John chuckled to himself as he remembered something Paul said to him once on this topic.   Should he tell the therapist what Paul had said?  John appraised the therapist’s face, and seeing only a pleasant interest there he decided to tell her.  
  
         “A friend of mine once told me,  ‘ _You may experience other emotions, John, but they all come out like anger_.’ “  John laughed and so did the therapist.  “The thing is, when he said that, in my head I was thinking – _bingo!_ – that is exactly how it is with me!  If I’m sad, I get angry.  If I’m scared, I get angry.  Embarrassed?  Depressed?  Tired? Hungry?  Stressed out?  It all makes me angry.”  
  
         “Anger is an interesting topic by itself,” the therapist said neutrally.  
  
         “But I wanted to talk about my work, because I really believe that working is the key to me starting to feel right about myself.  I’m a 45 year-old man without a job!  I just hang out all day.  I sometimes bang away at a piano or a guitar, but I never find the hook – the thing that pulls you into a song, and makes you feel as though you’re on the right track.  It has been so long since I’ve felt it…something inside of me guiding me from note to note, and word to word.”  
  
         “You mentioned that the last time you felt good about working was before your band broke up.”  
  
         “Oh, I had a lot of steam right after the break up, and I had one of my most productive periods right when it was happening and in the year or two afterwards.  I was so full of rage and I could exorcise it through my work.  But then when the rage turned to anger, and then to just a dull ache, that is when the music left me.  Oh, my muse flirts with me every so often, but it’s like a cruel woman.  You know if you respond to the flirting she’ll put you down and break your heart.”  
  
         The therapist was interested in John’s comparison of music with a woman.  She was not a creative person herself, and was fascinated by what made creative people tick.  But she didn’t want to derail John’s line of thought.  
  
         “So what makes you feel that you are now serious about working again?”  The therapist asked.  
  
         “I don’t know.  It just feels different.  My former writing partner is busy working, and seeing him engrossed in it is making me feel like I should be doing it too.”  
  
         “Former writing partner?” The therapist asked.  The only two writing partners she knew of were Paul McCartney and Yoko Ono.  
  
         John looked up at her and then said, “Paul.”  
  
         “So you’ve been seeing each other again?”  
  
         John smiled despite himself.  “You could say that,” he drawled.  
  
         “What is that relationship like now?” She asked carefully.  
  
         “We’re cool.  We’ve been cool for years, now.  We’ve known each other forever.  All that crazy shit got in the way for a while, but we’re friends again.”  
  
         “How does that feel – to be friends again with him?”  
  
         John winced at the question, because it made him feel like he was following some kind of pat script.  But he answered, anyway.  “We were never going to hate each other forever,” he said softly, “because we have too much history.  You know, without him in my life I hardly know myself.”  
  
         The therapist sat back in her chair.  This was a profound and hopeful statement.  One of the few utterly positive things this patient had ever said about another human being.  Her brain was racing to try to draw him out on the subject without causing him to slam the door shut.  She saw something in John’s eyes – something alive and sparkling – when he mentioned Paul.  
  
         “Do you see each other as friends, or just occasionally as former friends?”  She asked, trying to gauge the importance of this relationship.  
  
         “We’re friends, not _former_ friends,” John said simply.  “And we see each other frequently.  Actually, what made me bring this topic up was I have been wanting to suggest to him that maybe we could try working together again.”  
  
         The therapist had a hard time keeping her face still.  This was news people would pay big money for.  She was a moderate Beatles fan herself, and the whole idea of Lennon and McCartney performing again together excited her.  But she maintained a placid exterior.  
  
         “You say that you are thinking of trying to work together again.  I sense there is a ‘but’ in there.  What is the ‘but’?”  
  
         John smiled.  “You’re not bad at what you do, Fiona,” he said with a warm smile.  “There is always a ‘but’ in life, isn’t that always the case?”  He paused for a moment, to choose his words carefully.  “It’s a delicate thing.  I’ve spent the last 15 years telling Paul I didn’t want to work with him anymore.  He didn’t give up for a long time.  But in the last few years he has given up, and has accepted that I don’t want to work with him, so he is seriously working on a new album on his own.  But the thing is, for the last year or so, I’ve wanted to work with him, but I made such an issue of not wanting to, it is like I can’t find the words to tell him that maybe I was wrong.”  John stopped to form his next thought.  “And he has moved on, and he doesn’t dare raise the subject with me again.  I bit his head off more than one time, and now I’m paying the price.  Now I’m thinking he doesn’t want to work with me anymore.”  
  
         “Isn’t it more likely that he just gave up asking you to work with him because of your reactions?  Isn’t it more likely that he would be delighted to work with you again?”  The therapist offered up more positive possibilities.  
  
         John considered these possibilities.  “I do think that is possible, yes, but there is this difficulty…”  
  
         “Yes?”  
  
         “We have this…this… _thing_ …between us, when it comes to our music.”  
  
         “ _Thing?_ ”  
  
         “It’s like a competition – an ego thing – it was at the bottom of our partnership always.  We drove each other. It is hard for either of us to admit that he needs the other one, creatively, and we each had a certain kind of envy when the other one did something really special…”  
  
         “Do you think that this competition was a good thing, or a bad thing?”  
  
         “It was good for the _band_ , I guess.  We drove each other to best each other.  But it was really hard on our friendship.”  John paused as he thought of the many times he had felt envy or victory in a Side A/B competition with Paul and felt a pang of regret.  “I think maybe we could have done even better if we _weren’t_ competing.  It is something I have been thinking about lately.  Maybe if we approach it less like a competition and more like a…I don’t know… _a joint venture_ , we could do even better than before.”  
  
         “And you don’t feel as if you could have this conversation with Paul?”  
  
         John paused for a long time.  He was trying to think of a way to explain his fear of rejection to his therapist without revealing too much.  It was a difficult problem.   Finally he sighed and said, “I want to have the conversation with him, but I don’t know how to start it. Do you have some ideas about how I could do it?”  
  
         The therapist knew this was a trick question.  She didn’t know enough about the two men’s relationship to give advice, and really her job was to help him find his _own_ answers to these thorny questions.  She tried to find a way to turn the question around so John could answer it himself.  
  
         “Why do you find it so hard to discuss this topic with Paul?  If you’re friends, it seems you should be able to at least broach the subject.”  
  
         “What would I say?  ‘Hey, you know when I told you _no way in hell will I ever work with you again_ , it seems I was wrong’…?  My pride has a hard time envisioning that conversation.”  John felt that “his pride” was a slam-dunk argument against having to be the one to broach the subject.  
  
         “Is your ‘pride’ more important to you than the possibility of working with him again?”  
  
         John was stumped.  The problem was that John’s pride _had_ been more important to him than almost anything else for most of his life!  He knew this was twisted, but what was he going to do about it?  It was what it was.  
  
         “If I admit I was wrong, I know what will happen,” John said, ignoring the question he was asked.  “Paul will take it as an ‘all clear’ sign, and start forging ahead with all sorts of plans and strategies, and all I will have wanted was to see if we could work together.  You know – he would just take the reins and start racing away.”  
  
         “And if he started to do that, couldn’t you tell him how you feel about that?”  
  
         John was instantly energized.  “That’s just the point!  I never could!  He’s like a tidal wave – you can’t imagine!  He just washes away all the objections and comments, and keeps moving.  I never could speak my mind!”  
  
         “Why not?  What was stopping you from speaking your mind?”  
  
         John was stumped yet again for a moment.  He finally knew what he had to say.  “I don’t _know_ why not!  That’s why I’m here, in a nutshell.  I’ve never known how to stand up to his self-confidence and certainty.  I’ve never felt self-confident or certain myself, and he’s been like that since I met him – and he was only fifteen!”  
  
         The therapist smiled.  “He sounds pretty intimidating.”  
  
         John looked at her oddly. “No.  No, he’s _not_ intimidating, or at least – well, he’s not _trying_ to be intimidating.  He just _is,_ because he is so… _perfect_.”  John was worked up now.  “He can’t _help_ being perfect, he was just born that way.  He doesn’t understand.  He doesn’t _know_ he’s perfect.  He thinks he’s normal.  So he doesn’t understand why people sometimes think he is arrogant.  He can’t help it.  He is too beautiful, too smart and too talented to be normal.  And his self-confidence makes him seem arrogant, but that isn’t where it is coming from…” John trailed off as he lost track of the point he was trying to make.  
  
         “Where do you think ‘it’ is coming from?”  
  
         “He thinks everyone can hear and understand the same things he hears, and they can’t.  He just assumes that everyone gets it.  And so he just rolls through without doubt, and it is hard to stop it, and say, ‘wait a minute!  I have a thought here!’”  John turned a frustrated face to his therapist.  He couldn’t think of another way to express Paul’s overwhelming talent and personality to this person.  And he wanted to convey the truth of it to her very much, because he wanted her to help him to stand up to it and the possibility of working with Paul again.  
  
         The therapist sat back in her chair and took note.  It surprised her very much to suddenly understand that John Lennon was not the unquestioned leader of the Beatles, and possibly not even the more dominant one in the songwriting partnership with McCartney.  In fact, John appeared to be thoroughly cowed by McCartney’s self-confidence and talent, and John’s deep insecurity caused him to avoid the emotional fray that might result from his revealing a desire to work with McCartney again.  
  
         “Do you think it is possible that you have built up Paul’s self-confidence into a kind of exaggerated bogeyman?”  
  
         John stared at his therapist for a long time, digesting her shrewd question.  
  
         “Yes,” he said.  “I do.  And what can I do about it?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul rediscover their creative partnership.

        John returned from the therapist’s office in the early evening to a dark house.  He went through turning on lights, and looking for Paul.  John wondered if Paul had gone somewhere, or…oh.  Of course.  John turned the lights on in the stairwells, and headed for the attic room.  That is where Paul had been all day, and there he still was.  He was sitting in the dark, with only a reading light at the piano.  He was sound asleep.  His head was resting on his arms, which were folded on the music rack.  John smiled, feeling an almost maternal glow in his heart.  Paul had always been like that – who needs to eat?  Who needs to sleep?  Who needs to do _anything_ other than mess around with musical instruments and recording equipment?  
  
         He quietly approached Paul, gently stroked his back, and lightly squeezed the base of his neck.  
  
         Paul’s head shot up with an “oh!”  He shook his head as he tried to regain full consciousness.   “What time is it?” Paul asked, his voice scratchy with sleep.  
  
         “It’s time to eat dinner.  How long have you been sleeping?”  
  
         “I don’t know.”  Paul’s hands were running themselves through an unruly mass of black hair, streaked with silver.  
  
         “You need to come downstairs, back to the living.  I’ll make us something to eat.”  John was smiling indulgently, as Paul made the little moans and groans that often accompanied his waking up process.  John grasped Paul’s hand, and led him down the stairs to the kitchen.  Paul slumped at the table, while John pottered around in the kitchen, working on one of Linda’s pasta recipes.  As they ate their meal quietly, John studied Paul’s face and energy level to determine if he was up to a serious conversation.  Paul appeared to be perking up, and had begun making chirpy little Macca-like remarks, when John decided that this would be as good a time as any to raise the touchy subject.  
  
         “I had an interesting therapy session today,” John started, dropping the comment in during a friendly lull in their conversation.  
  
         “Oh?”  Paul was interested, but didn’t want to pry.  He had never asked John about his therapy, or how he felt it was working.  He instinctively knew that John needed his space on this subject.  So Paul tried to keep his reaction to John’s comment from sounding too enthusiastic.  Concerned interest was the vibe he wanted John to feel.  
  
         “I was talking about my inability to actually finish anything I start, work wise.”  John stated.  He looked up through his eyelashes to see Paul’s reaction.  Paul was studying his pasta, but there was a little wrinkle above his nose between his eyebrows.  John knew from that “tell” that Paul was intensely listening, but was afraid to show his interest.  A ghost of a smile passed over John’s face briefly before it vanished.  He took a deep breath and jumped right in.  
  
         “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” John said, speaking as matter-of-factly as possible, gauging Paul’s body language with every word.  Paul met John’s eyes with a polite interest in his eyes, but the wrinkle above his nose was still there.   “I was thinking maybe you could take a look at some of my song fragments.  I’d like your advice and input on them.”  
  
         Paul’s feigned look of indifference had vanished, to be replaced by a still, nervous face.  He looked exactly like a deer in a forest - spotted by a human being - who is considering whether to run away or trust the intruder.  John pushed ahead.  
  
         “Maybe you would let me hear your stuff?  I might have a few helpful comments.”  John let the offer stand there, and faced the silence with a thudding heart.  
  
         Paul finally stirred.  His throat was constricted.  He couldn’t believe his ears.  John was offering to work with him again.  He had given up all hope of that ever happening.  But he could tell John was skittish and perhaps a little ambivalent about the idea, too.  Paul knew that John didn’t like being rushed creatively, and had often been annoyed by Paul’s enthusiasm and tendency to take control and push things too quickly forward.  So he also knew he had to treat this offer as if it were a casual, ‘let’s check in with each other’s progress’ kind of thing.  
  
         “So,” John said, “what do you think about that idea?”  
  
         Paul swallowed and found his voice.  “I would like that very much,” he said shyly.  
  
         John was amazed at how relieved he was.  He had been holding his breath without realizing it, and he felt that breath like a wave as it exhaled through his mouth.  He smiled and said, “Good.  Let’s start tomorrow.  Now finish your food.”  
  
         Paul laughed, and dove back into his food with gusto.  Surprising how all of a sudden his appetite had increased!  
  
         That night, in bed, Paul was determined to reward John for his generous offer, and so John’s head had hardly hit the pillow, before Paul’s hand was on his chest, and slowly stroking downwards towards John’s lower tummy.  John groaned with desire, and grabbed a hold of Paul’s hand, shoving it down to his already aroused cock.  Paul chuckled and said, in a low and teasing voice, “You’re so impatient!  And you call _me_ pushy!”  
  
         With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Paul moved down towards John’s pelvic area.  John moaned extremely loudly when he realized that Paul was going to go down on him.  He was never entirely sure that Paul enjoyed it – Mr. Control Freak who thought of himself as straight – but Paul was really, really, good at it.  He once teased Paul by telling him, “Have you been practicing on other men? How did you get so good at this?”  
  
         Paul had of course laughed and said, “Like with everything else I try, John, I’m a natural.”  
  
         As John was remembering, Paul was using his tongue in creative ways, and John felt his interior temperature rising on the second.  He felt the softness of Paul’s fingertips – even with the calluses the touch was smooth – and the satiny feel of Paul’s tongue on his erection.  It was tracing the vein on the top of his cock, from the base to the tip.  And then his tongue was toying with the slit on his tip.  John thought to himself, _I should have given in on the working together idea ages ago, if this is my reward!_  
  
         Paul had never thought he would enjoy giving head, but for whatever reason he enjoyed doing it for John.  There was a part of him who enjoyed giving in to his submissive side.  He felt so often that he had to be the strong, logical, rational, easy-going, balanced, stable one.  On those few occasions when John was in a strong, dominating mood, it thrilled Paul right down to the tip of his penis, and at this moment, as he started sucking John’s dick in a whole-hearted way, Paul was experiencing an engorging thrill in his own dick.  
  
         As Paul began sucking in earnest, John was groaning loudly.  Periodically a swear word would escape his lips:  “Fuck!”  “Shit!”  “Oh my god, you cunt!”  (This last made Paul chuckle even as his mouth was full of cock.)  Paul was encouraged by these comments, and soon his head was bopping up and down at an impressive rate.  John’s groans and shouts became closer together and louder.  “Oh my fuckin’ god!” he screamed at one point, “your mouth is a gift from god!”  Again, Paul chuckled with a mouth full of dick.   He didn’t stop his relentless sucking, and John felt himself getting to the point where he could not hold it back a second longer.  “I’m coming!” he shouted, expecting Paul to withdraw his mouth.  But Paul didn’t, and instead did an intense suction suck on John’s dick that sent him into the throes of an extreme orgasm.  The thick semen came flooding into Paul’s throat, and Paul swallowed it as quickly as possible, gagging a little on the last drops.  
  
         A few moments later, after both men had taken refreshing sips of water, they curled up in each other’s arms, nose-to-nose, and simply looked into each other’s eyes.  John felt he could see the whole universe – or at least all the parts of the universe that really mattered to him – in those huge hazel eyes.  And Paul felt flush with a combination of disbelief and joy that he could see such all-encompassing love directed his way in John’s eyes.  Over the next little while, one and then the other of them would blink and find it difficult for a moment to reopen his eyes, until finally they each gave in, and were both sound asleep.  


 

*****

  
  
        John had brought out a couple of shoeboxes from his closet and handed them unceremoniously to Paul, who was seated at the piano in the sitting room.  The boxes were filled to their brims, it turned out, with several dozens of scraps of paper - everything from the backs of bank envelopes to cocktail napkins.  On these scraps of paper were would-be lyrics, scribbled in John’s unpredictable handwriting.  Some times John’s writing was quite neat and precise, and other times it was wild and almost undecipherable.  Except of course Paul could decipher even the worst of John’s handwriting, after so many years of pouring over it to pull out magic.  Paul looked at the open boxes with what could only be described as a sense of wonder.  It was as if he was the lucky fool who had inadvertently stumbled upon Aladdin’s cave of wonders.  Paul knew there were songs inside of that box just waiting to be discovered – right there at his fingertips.  He felt overwhelmed with the privilege and the responsibility of being the one to go find them.  His eyes tore themselves away from the treasure trove, and looked up into John’s eyes; he was standing next to the piano looking back at Paul.  
  
         John saw on Paul’s face – it was so clear – awe and gratitude in equal measures, and John suddenly felt his eyes tearing up.  How could he have been so selfish as to deny Paul this gift for so long?  How long had it been now?  Six years?  What a small heart he housed inside his chest!  What ugly part of him had schemed to keep him from sharing his creative process with Paul?  Well, John decided in that moment, whatever that part of him it was, he was going to banish it completely from his mind and his heart.  The only thing that really mattered, after all, was to see so much intense devotion in his lover’s eyes.  John vowed that he would do everything in his power to keep that look on Paul’s face, and he knew Thing One was to find a way for their muses to merge again.  John no longer cared whether what they created together would match the expectations the world would have for it.  No, he was no longer paralyzed by the fear that the quality of the product would disappoint others.  He realized, in this very moment, that it was the _creative process_ that bound Paul and him together so inexplicably, and the mere act of sharing that creative and emotional intimacy was all that mattered.  It was no longer important to preserve the intimidating “Lennon/ McCartney” reputation.  After all, critical and public acclaim had never held him through the cold, dark night, or coaxed a smile out of him when he was feeling lonely or blue.  
  
         “Wow.”  This one half-whispered word broke the silence.  Paul had started to pick through one of the boxes, gingerly at first.  “There’s a lot here.”  
  
         “That’s about 11 years of frustrated creative blockage,” John said in response.  He gestured for Paul to shove over a bit on the piano bench, and then slid in beside him.  
  
         “Are any of these full lyrics sets?”  Paul was looking at one slip of paper after the other, but had only found fragments of lyrics – nothing approaching a full set.  
  
         “No, these were my rejects.  Well, not rejects really, but – ones I thought had promise, but I couldn’t pull anything else out of them.  I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.  I thought maybe some day I would figure out what to do with them, so I’d stick them in a box, and then, for whatever reason, I almost never went back to look at them again.”  
  
         “You want to go through them together?”  Paul asked.  He had automatically started putting the little pieces of paper in various stacks on the front lid of the piano, sorting them in some kind of order that meant something to him alone.  John watched with amused wonder at how quickly Paul seemed to be able to categorize the bits and pieces.  
  
         “Why don’t you go through them, and then after you’ve had a chance to digest it all, you can tell me what you think.”  John smiled since he realized he had lost Paul’s main attention; that was focused on the treasures in the shoeboxes.  
  
         “Ah – huh…” Paul responded (a few seconds too late), and then – as if he suddenly realized he was being rude – he looked at John and said, “Up in the music room, I have a number of tapes – I put them out for you.”  
  
         John understood that this was Paul asking him to listen to his latest work, and wanting to hear John’s opinion.  “Ok, that sounds like a plan,” John said, leaning over as he got up so he could kiss Paul on his cheek.  His reward was a quick warm smile and a saucy wink, before Paul’s attention was once again claimed by the shoeboxes. Sighing contentedly (yes, this was him, John Lennon, _content!)_ John headed up to Paul’s music room.   He guessed it would be _his_ music room from now on, too.  He felt a frisson of excitement – for the first time in a long time he felt a fire of enthusiasm for his work burning in his belly.  He found the tapes, selected one at random, plugged in the earphones, and began to listen.  


 

*****

       A few hours later, his head full of beautiful McCartney music mixing with some of his own inspired ideas, John went back downstairs to make something to eat.  Paul was still in the sitting room, but he had moved on to the floor, and John noticed that all of the pieces of paper were out of the boxes.   There were dozens of little piles, and Paul was systematically going through each pile, pulling out some pieces of paper to put them in different piles, or adding new ones.  He was 100% engrossed in this task, and did not hear when John walked in and told him there was food on the table.  
  
         “Paul… _Paul_!”  John finally had to shout the name out, and Paul’s head jerked up.  The zoned out look on his face quickly turned into a big, cheerful smile.  
  
         “John!  This stuff is amazing!”  He announced victoriously.  
  
         “I’m excited to hear that, babe, but dinner’s on the table and it is getting cold.  It’s time to take a break.  We can talk about it while we eat.”  John knew he would have to stand there expectantly until Paul realized that it was time for him to stop what he was doing, and transition into another task.  Transitioning from one activity to the other had always been difficult for Paul, who threw himself into whatever he was doing with such complete focus and concentration that if he had to stop before he was finished, he felt unfairly interrupted and even thwarted.  
  
         Paul was grumbling about having to stop, but John stood his ground, with an ironic smile on his face that Paul finally noticed.  
  
         “What?” Paul asked in a truculent tone of voice.  
  
         “What _what_?”  John responded, his Cheshire cat grin getting wider by the second.  
  
         “What’s that smirk about?”  Paul asked indignantly.  
  
         “You’re hilarious.  You act as though I’d just asked you to let go of a ledge so you could plummet ten floors to your death.”  
  
         In irritated response, Paul grumbled something under his breath.  
  
         “What’s that?” John asked, laughing.  “I didn’t hear you.”  
  
         “ _I said,_ sometimes I think my sole purpose on this planet is to entertain you!”  Paul still sounded indignant, but the expression on his face had melted into fond amusement.  With what he obviously felt was a great effort Paul pulled himself up to his feet, and followed John to the kitchen table.  He smelled first and then saw a lovely mass of mashed potatoes and sautéed vegetables, and his stomach, as if on cue, began growling loudly.  He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until that very moment.  He immediately plunged in, eating with gusto, and bursting forth with enthusiasm about what he had found in John’s shoeboxes.  
  
         “There’s at least twelve songs in there, John.  So far.  There will be more.  Of course, some of them need middle eight verses, but a lot of them, when put together, actually made a full set of lyrics!”  Paul was speaking quickly now, with the relentless energy that overcame him when he was speaking about music.  
  
         “Yeah, but are any of them any good?”  John asked, skeptical that there could be even one decent song in that little lot of lyric sketches.  
  
         “Yes, I think so.  I think two or three of them will be great.”  
  
         “But there isn’t any music.”  John pointed out in a teasing tone of voice that Paul, following his own absorbing train of thought, didn’t notice.  
  
         “Yes there is John!  You can hear it when you read the words,” Paul responded.  
  
         John chuckled.  “Maybe _you_ can hear it when you read the words, but _I_ can’t.  I’ll have to wait to see what you come up with before I can hear it.”  
  
         Paul put down his fork and stared at John for a few moments before saying, with a religious-like fervor, “I had forgotten what it was like, John, reading your lyrics.  The music I hear for your lyrics is music I would never have thought of except for your words.  It is the weirdest thing.”  
  
         As Paul made this confession, John felt a thrill of surprise and…yes… _hope._   He hadn’t expected it to be so easy.  He had thought it would be difficult to bridge the years they’d been apart, or that one or the other of them would become overly sensitive about their solo efforts.  And yet as he sat there that evening, he knew he had all sorts of transforming ideas for Paul’s songs, and here was Paul telling him he heard some great songs in what – until just now – John had thought of as aimless, and perhaps even worthless, lyric fragments.  Could it be that there was still some magic in their mojo?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul struggle to find a vibe in their creative partnership.

         There were times when John almost wished he’d never opened his Pandora’s boxes full of song lyrics to Paul.  A restless spirit had oozed out of those boxes and had taken over Paul.  He was almost feverish in his intensity as he moved through the little piles of papers, until he had sorted them out to his satisfaction.  This literally took weeks - weeks of Paul doing nothing else but.  John was reminded of how overwhelming and even intimidating Paul could be when roused to his full creative vigor.  John’s muse had always been more like a lazy surfer-dude hitchhiker, while Paul’s was like a German military officer at dress parade.  And right now that officer was putting Paul through some pretty relentless paces.  
  
         John sighed and looked out the window to a rainy and overcast London afternoon.  Paul had just come back from Sussex the day before, and he had explained in great detail everything he had accomplished on John’s songs while he had been gone.  What Paul primarily had to show for it was a large spiral notebook – the kind college students use – in which he had copied out in his own exquisite handwriting the various song lyrics he had put together using John’s fragments, with the unfinished portions left blank so they could later go in and insert additions.  The notebook was in John’s lap now, and he was looking through it slowly.  Each page brought a new surprise:  his words looking back at him, but in a different order, and somehow now they made sense.  Of course – _that_ was what he had meant to say!  Why hadn’t he seen it before? It was so bloody obvious now that Paul had pointed it out to him.  
  
         While Paul had been in Sussex for two weeks, John had been working on Paul’s songs, but he hadn’t yet approached this subject with Paul.  He wasn’t sure how Paul would react to criticism – however constructive – of the songs that he had thought were almost done.  It was different for John, who had given Paul a bunch of bits and pieces that he, John, had already given up on.  Paul had entrusted him with music he had been close to recording.  John harkened back to their partnership circa 1968, and he remembered how touchy Paul had been when he had made comments about his songs.  Their partnership hadn’t always been thus, but that was sure how it had ended.  John was a little nervous that his comments and suggestions would offend Paul, and he wanted to avoid that at all costs.  Their process was still awkward on an emotional level, and he didn’t want to push the envelope too far or too fast.  
  
         Paul, meanwhile, had spent weeks feeling like a pig in slop.  He couldn’t have been more emotionally and physically satisfied.  Music was his life’s work, but it was also the way he made sense of the world and learned about his own feelings and beliefs.   And John’s input had always inspired him to push himself further in order to live up to the greatness of John’s talent.  He knew he had started to fall in to the clutches of the project – he had been held in utter thrall – and then, in a sudden brief moment of clarity, he worried if he was pushing John away again.  And Linda.  
  
         Paul’s conduct during the two weeks he’d spent in Sussex had put a new strain on his marriage to Linda.  Paul felt the effect of it around the edges of his absorption in his work – Linda resenting his distraction, wanting him to interact with her, and with the children.  Paul knew that she had grown to accept (if not love) the fact that her husband would be gone half of each month, living a completely different life with someone else.  But at least before when he had come home to Linda, he had mostly been there for her and the children.  This new obsession of his – working with John’s lyrics – had driven a wedge directly between his family and him.  It no doubt hardly mattered that Paul was equally preoccupied by his work when he was with John.  Linda wouldn’t know about that anyway, and it wouldn’t be of any comfort to her even if she did.  
  
         In fact, Paul knew that his love affair with music was greater and more demanding than either of his two human love affairs.  Neither Linda nor John could hold a candle to it, although John at least could be a substantial part of it if he would only get up off his ass and come join him.   With that stray thought, Paul looked up from the keys, where he was banging out what sounded like random chords, and caught sight of John curled in an armchair staring aimlessly out the window, the song notebook sitting neglected on his lap.  Paul wondered, not for the first time, if John was just humoring him with this project.  Perhaps he wasn’t interested in it at all, but felt obliged to do it for Paul’s sake.   This jarring thought succeeded in breaking his concentration, and Paul felt the ties that bound him to the piano falling loose around him.  Had he gone and done it again?  Grabbed a mere suggestion of John’s, and charged off with it, leaving John behind in the dust and disenfranchised?  
  
         John heard the music stop, and turned in the direction of the piano to find Paul sitting there staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face.  John, uncertain of Paul’s mood, smiled warily.  “Back amongst the living, are we?” he asked softly.  
  
         Paul nodded vaguely, but John could see a thunderhead gathering on Paul’s forehead.   What was this all about?  Paul was such a moody Irishman.  You never knew what extreme emotion would come next!  
  
         Finally, Paul spoke, his voice devoid of inflection.  “Am I annoying you again, John?”  
  
         John was dumbfounded.  He hadn’t expected this.  “No, of course not you twat.  Why do you ask?”  
  
         “I’m thinking I’m taking this project too seriously.  I sense it doesn’t mean as much to you as it does to me.”  Paul’s usually greenish-brown eyes looked utterly black in the darkened room.  “Have I gotten too far out ahead of you again?”  Paul’s voice actually sounded wistful as he asked this question.  
  
         John studied Paul’s expression, wondering if this was a trap of some kind.  He didn’t know what to say, because he didn’t know where this was coming from.  “Paul, no, I’m _excited_ that you’re excited.  You’ve made enormous headway, and I’m looking forward to what comes of it.”  John sensed that he wasn’t saying the right things, but he honestly didn’t know what words would be the right ones in this situation.  
  
         “I would appreciate some help though,” Paul finally said.  “I feel like one hand, trying to clap.”   An even darker expression flitted across Paul’s face.  He was remembering how bad it had been trying to work with John after he had started doing drugs in earnest.  It had been a whole lot of compromising and maneuvering and manipulating on his part, and he had taken heaps of verbal abuse from John as thanks, just to get a small amount of John’s participation in the process, and only to have John castigate the results publicly.  It hadn’t dawned on Paul until just now that maybe what John had begun to feel in 1966 was how he would always feel about working with the hyperactive Paul _.   I’m too much of a good thing for him_ , Paul thought to himself.  _Why can’t I just slow down and run at his pace?_  
  
         John was startled by Paul’s comment.  “What kind of help do you need?” he asked, clueless.  
  
         “You could sit with me and help me with the songs, you know.  Like we used to do in the early days  - eyeball to eyeball.”  Paul looked so forlorn at that moment that John’s heart was moved.  
  
         “It’s worth a try,” John said in a non-committal voice.  “I thought I was just staying out of the way while you sorted things out in your head.  But maybe you’ve moved beyond that now?” John was begging Paul’s eyes to meet his.   He wanted to check in to see if this was just a passing worry, or if Paul was seriously upset.  
  
         Paul felt helpless to express his concerns.  Instead, he forced himself to smile at John’s question, and responded, “Yeah, let’s try that with one of these songs.  I’ll pick one out and we can start on it.  Tomorrow.  I think I’m done for the night.”  As he said this, Paul closed up the piano, and organized his music sheets into a neat pile.  “Do you fancy going out for dinner?” he asked John lightly.  
  
         John was not fooled.  He knew that Paul had drawn his neck back into his shell.  In the past John might have kept hounding Paul until he told him what was bothering him, but in the last five years John had learned that this was counterproductive, and the best way to get Paul to open up was to give him his space when he clearly wanted it, and then wait for the right moment to reintroduce the topic later.  
  
         “Dinner would be good.  Italian?”  John got up, and walked over to the piano, proffering his hand to Paul, and then helping to pull him to his feet.  But even as they dressed for dinner, John’s mind was going over Paul’s strange mood change and what might be behind it.  He was going to have to coax it out of him later that night – but only after some fulfilling intercourse, of course, of the sexual kind.

 

*****

  
        The bedside lamp was a faint amber glow, and there was no other light in the room.  Earlier, John had enticed Paul into the shower with him and they had gently canoodled together under the steamy hot water.  
  
         Now, lying on the cool smooth sheets, and under a soft warm blanket, John had felt a “kiss attack” coming on.  Sometimes he couldn’t stop himself from just raining kisses down on Paul – his face, his neck, his shoulders, his chest, and anywhere else he could reach – and this was one of those times.  Paul giggled at the onslaught, and began singing in a hammy voice, _“…Besame…besame mucho…_ ” John smothered Paul’s mouth with his own, cutting off Paul’s tongue with his own, but he could still hear the lush humming reverberating in Paul’s throat.  John broke the kiss, and burst out laughing.  
  
         “You fuckin’ perve!” he cried, smacking the side of Paul’s thigh with his open hand. “Behave!  Be serious!”  
  
         _“…Como si fuera esta noche la última vez…_ ” Paul continued his serenade, heedless of John’s threatening voice.  
  
         “Alright Paul, you made your fuckin’ point, now lie back and take it like a man.”  John was chuckling deep in his throat, as the bottom of his foot rubbed itself along Paul’s shin.  
  
         “ _Pero senor_ , I am not - _como se_ \- ‘Paul’, I am _R-R-Ramon_ …” Paul crooned in a loony Latin accent, rolling his ‘R’ with unnecessary exaggeration.  “And I want you to _besame… besame mucho_ …” Paul was presenting his lips to John in a fish-like pout.  
  
         “You’re sick, you need some medicine…” John laughed, tweaking Paul’s pursed lips with his index finger and thumb, while simultaneously prodding Paul’s pelvic region with his cock.  
  
         “ _Si senor!_ That is what I certainly need!  The medicine of your kisses!”  [Singing again] “ _Que tengo miedo a perderte, perderte despues…”_  
  
         A bark of loud laughter escaped John as he saw the cartoonish look of a love-struck suitor on Paul’s playful face.  Deciding to take Paul at his word, he suddenly pushed him down into the pillow, and with his hands holding either side of Paul’s face, he plunged his tongue into Paul’s mouth, and then down his throat.  The kiss was so intense that Paul’s fruity flirtatiousness evaporated into thin air, and soon he was kissing John back with equal passion.  
  
         John could feel the heat in his dick, and he knew where it wanted to be.  “I’m gonna fuck you,” he whispered in a hoarse voice directly into Paul’s ear.  
  
         “ _Mmmm…_ ” was all he heard in response, although Paul’s body seemed to melt suddenly around him, and his long, shapely legs were grasping John in a lock at the small of his back.  
  
         Taking this as encouragement, John reached for the lube in the bed table drawer, and soon slathered his hands with it.  With one hand he firmly grasped Paul’s cock, and with the other he allowed his middle and index fingers to insinuate themselves into Paul’s anus.  Paul exhaled an “ _oohhh_ ” as John’s fingers pushed into him and headed expertly in the direction of his prostrate.  
  
         “Johnny!” Paul shouted out, as John touched the spot on the wall of his rectum that was adjacent to his prostrate.  John had learned how to hone in on that spot, and he liked to torture Paul with little strokes and prods before withdrawing his hand and inserting a hard, jutting cock.  “ _Ohmygggodd…_ ”  Paul was practically crying as this happened.  It was his _Long Tally Sally_ voice, John thought with a little flash of nasty pride.  John had found the lump against the rectal wall where Paul’s prostrate was located with the arch of his cock, and he was squirming around to indulge Paul with a never ending rubbing sensation right where the doctor ordered.  The sounds coming out of Paul approximated actual squeals, like the sounds they used to get out of girls in the clubs when they sang boozy ballads to them.  John was inordinately proud of this, and persisted in his teasing of this area until he felt the stiffness in Paul’s legs that meant he was about to have an orgasm.  
  
         _“Oh – Oh – Ohohohoh- oh!”_ Paul’s involuntary cries drove John on to harder and deeper thrusts, and when Paul finally gave in to his body’s throbbing impulses, his ejaculate literally exploded out of his dick and the warm wetness surprised John as he felt streams of it hitting his lower stomach.  In turn, this caused John’s pelvis to accelerate its relentless rutting, and his eyes sunk into his sockets as he focused totally on the feel of his dick sliding in and out of Paul’s passage.  Soon John’s throbbing dick could take no more, and a moment later his cum was overflowing from Paul’s anus.  The squishy wetness inside Paul’s rectum was so erotic to John that he kept rutting even after his orgasm.  It was beyond words how wonderful it was to fuck Paul.  
  
         John flopped on to his back, gasping for air, and waiting for his heartbeats to slow down.  Next to him, he could hear Paul’s breathing beginning to regularize.  After a moment or two, he turned over on his side, and put his arm around Paul’s chest.  The two men laid there in a peaceful silence for a few moments, and then John spoke.  
  
         “You okay, Pud?”  
  
         “Oh yeah.  Man, it was…”  
  
         “I know what you mean,” John responded, grinning from ear to ear in the dark.  
  
         “I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk for a week,” Paul said drily, his hand grasping John’s hand as it played with Paul’s nipple.  
  
         “I like the idea of you in bed, helpless.  It turns me on,” John whispered, moving his flat palm up and down Paul’s abdomen, and enjoyed feeling Paul’s quivers through his sensitive fingers.  
  
         Paul’s head moved on the pillow so his forehead was touching John’s.  There was a contented warm silence.  John was tracing circles on Paul’s chest, idly curling the hair there.  Paul’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing in deep, calm waves.  John felt the time was ripe.  
  
         “I’ve been wondering what you meant earlier, when you asked if you were annoying me,” John started softly, his warm hand pressing gently on Paul’s midriff.  “I was confused, and I’m not sure if I understood what you were getting at.”  
  
         Paul’s body did not go stiff, and that was a good sign, but his hands stilled in the aftermath of John’s question.  
  
         “Pud?  Tell me what’s bothering you,” John added in a plaintive voice.  
  
         “I just feel like I grabbed the banner and started running, and then I realized I was alone, and you weren’t with me.”  Paul’s voice was a soft, quiet monotone.  
  
         John’s heart felt a pang.  “I didn’t want to rush you, or interfere with your process,” John said softly.  “I guess I’m afraid I’ll do or say something to push you away from me again. So I’ve been trying to give you space.  I thought that’s what you wanted.”  
  
         The night was silent for several moments.  
  
         “Funny, that.  Because I didn’t want to rush you, either, so I just took off on my own.  What are we going to do, John?  Do you think we’ll ever feel at ease with each other as creative partners again?”  
  
         John felt relieved that Paul had responded in a positive way to his inquiry.  “I think we have to just stop worrying so much about what _might_ happen, and just let things _happen,_ if you know what I mean…”  
  
         “I’m a bit shy about…about opening up about the songs,” Paul offered.  “I keep remembering how hard it was at the end, when I couldn’t even play one of my songs for you because you sat there with Yoko as if you were one unit, and I was the…interloper…”  
  
         John frowned a bit as he remembered those days.  He knew what Paul meant, and he also knew how he felt.  “There’s no one between us now, Paul.  It’s only me.”  
  
         Paul chuckled.  “You said that to me before, you know.  When we were fighting over the business.  In the men’s room at EMI.  We were both taking a leak, and you suddenly shook your penis dry, and turned to me and said, ‘It’s only me.’  It made me laugh.”  
  
         “There was so much wrong that happened in those days, Pud, that I wouldn’t know where to start to apologize.  But we were totally fucked up with drugs and had people whispering in our ears.  We need to start over – from scratch.”  
  
         Paul had been listening to this small speech, and then leaned over and pulled the drawer out from his bedside table.  He took something out, and fiddled with it in the shadows.  John watched with a mixture of curiosity and concern.  Then Paul abruptly tore something in half, and handed one half to John.  John reached for it, perplexed, and then discovered that it was half a bar of chocolate. He looked at Paul with a question in his eyes, and Paul smiled warmly at him.  
  
         “Do you remember that time when we were just new friends and you offered me half your chocolate bar?”  
  
         John didn’t remember, but he nodded his agreement.  
  
         “Well, that was the moment I knew we would be partners forever.”  He took a big bite out of his part of the chocolate bar, and then, as he chewed and swallowed, he said to John, “So now I’m giving you half _my_ chocolate bar.”  
  
         John smiled, vaguely remembering now, and he took a huge bite of the chocolate bar to show that he was on board with the proposition.  He leaned down and licked the chocolate off Paul’s still-cherubic lips.  “And let’s hope that ‘forever’ really _is_ forever this time, Pud,” he said softly.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are going really well with our two heroes. Until it isn't.

       It was Christmas Eve 1986.  The weather in Sussex this year was not nearly as cold as it had been the year before, but there was frost on the trees, and the lawns crunched, and even a little snow lingered in the colder parts of the forest in the grounds surrounding the McCartney home.  Inside the family great room a huge fire was snapping and crackling, and tiny bits of discarded wrapping paper and ribbons were still scattered across the carpet.  Two large dogs were slumbering by the fire, and John watched them idly from his seat on a sofa as he nursed his hot toddy.  He turned to his left and saw Linda in her armchair, her long slender legs resting on the hassock in front of her as she read a book.  He turned to his right and saw Paul at the other end of the sofa, deeply asleep, his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles and his arms crossed over his chest.  He’d been up very early that morning in the windmill, John knew, putting together toys for James and Sean, and swearing liberally as he did so.  John had helped a little, but fell asleep an hour into it, leaving Paul to finish on his own.  
  
         John knew that Sean and James were off in James’s room, busily overdosing on new toys.  Julian was spending Christmas this year with Cynthia, and Heather was off with a boyfriend somewhere.  Mary and Stella were listening to music upstairs.  John could hear the music in the background.  Bon Jovi.  _Slippery When Wet_.  Both girls were gaga over that band.  He smiled ruefully, feeling his age and non-relevance sweeping over him.  On this evening, though, he wasn’t sorry or bitter.  He was grateful for what he had with Paul, for being a satellite member of this family, and for the time he could spend with his own two sons. And then of course – there was his work with Paul.  
  
         After an awkward beginning, the two men had fallen into a comfortable side-by-side working relationship.  Sometimes they worked closely together, choosing words and chords one by one in unison.  More often they each wrote separately, and then edited the other’s efforts.  Sometimes all John did to one of Paul’s songs was to tell Paul to stop polishing – the song was done already!  Sometimes all Paul did to one of John’s songs was sneak in his layered vocal harmonies and counter melodies on bass.  Frequently, John would use his razor sharp wit to make Paul’s lyrics more direct and impactful, and Paul would take one of John’s rudimentary melodies and completely transform it into something unrecognizably different but better.  In short:  they had found that place where both of their demanding egos, not to mention their muses, could work together side by side in harmony.  They had stopped trying to analyze it, understand it, judge it, or second-guess it.  It had a life of its own, and it needed space and mystery in order to flourish.  
  
         However, the one new thing they had promised each other this time was that they would not compete with each other ever again.  John had brought the subject up first, telling Paul, “We’re in the same boat, and this time we should always paddle in the same direction.”  
  
         Paul had been amused by the comment and had joked, “You mean, instead of hitting each other over the head with the paddles?”  John had laughed.  
  
         They had added this solemn promise to their other unwritten understandings – that they would publish everything under both names, no matter how little the other had contributed, and that they would never censor the other’s work.  Thus, in the past, Paul had shared credit and reluctantly helped John with “ _Revolution No. 9_ ”, and John had shared credit and reluctantly helped Paul with “ _Obla Di, Obla Da_.”  
  
         The non-competition clause had been a great success to their overall mental health, and it didn’t seem to harm the quality or quantity of their work, either.  But John wondered if their combined efforts were as good as he thought they were.  They had both been through a whole lot of drama, alone and together, in the sixteen years since they had last worked together, so they both had a lot to say.  But ‘80s music was…well, John wasn’t sure there was room in the marketplace for the kind of thing that he and Paul were doing.  This night, at least, he wasn’t sure if he even cared.  Part of him hoped they’d never release the damn record, because he had finally realized that the creative process itself is what he loved – not the woolly bully aftermath of the product’s release.  An artist lost complete control over his work the moment it became public.  It no longer belonged to him.  The suits would want to mess with it, market it, and sell it.  The critics would want to judge it, explain it, and along with judging and explaining the work, they would judge and explain the artists.  The disc jockeys would either play it or not play it, depending on what the critics said.  And the public would hear it only if the disc jockeys played it, or – in the case of die hard fans - only if they went out of their way to find it.  
  
         John supposed that the disc jockeys would play their music.  They were Lennon and McCartney after all.  The DJs had played his egregious ‘ _Double Fantasy’_ songs, hadn’t they?  And John knew that his work with Paul on this album was far superior to any other work they had done together before.  He knew it was fantastic, but he doubted that it was _fashionable_.  Maybe the worst thing of all would be to have the suits publish it surrounded by over the top hyperbole, the critics praise it for all the wrong reasons, the disc jockeys play it because it was the thing to do, and the public buy it, but only because it was John and Paul, and not because they actually understood and appreciated the music itself.  He’d much rather everyone _not_ listen to it, _not_ understand it, and _not_ buy it, than to have them accept it for all the wrong reasons.  
  
         John turned to gaze at Paul’s sleeping face.  He knew that Paul would not agree with John on that point.  Paul really believed in what they had done; just as he had done with _Sgt. Pepper_ when the whole world thought they were all crazy.  Paul didn’t always know when an album was _good_ , but he always knew when an album was _great_.  And he clearly believed that their new work was ripe.  Paul had confidence in their work, and while he was anxious about rock critics taking shots at _his_ work, he knew they would at least acknowledge the brilliance in _John’s_ contributions.  
  
         John sighed, realizing it was time for him to make his way back to the windmill.  Paul had spent the night with him last night – even if Paul had spent most of the night putting together toys instead of playing around with him – and this would be Linda’s night.  He stretched and got to his feet, and Linda looked up from her book and smiled at him warmly.  
  
         “I’ll be on my way, now,” he said softly.  He glanced over at Paul and wanted very much to go over and give him a cuddle and a sexy kiss – or even just a small affectionate kiss – but he knew Paul did not want any PDA between them in front of Linda.  That was forbidden, even though John often had to watch Linda and Paul kissing and hugging.  It was his lot in life.  So he leaned over and kissed Linda on her cheek instead.  
  
         He struggled into his overcoat, and pushed on his galoshes over his stocking feet.  One of the dogs had accompanied him to the door as if to see him off.  John scratched the dog’s head in a friendly manner, and then shut the door behind him.  He had a torch in his pocket, and he slowly made his way down the drive to the windmill.  Once there, he went about turning on all the lights and turning up the heat.  There was a chill there after the extravagant warmth of the McCartneys’ great room, and he waited until the room defrosted a little before removing his overcoat.  He bundled himself up in warm pajamas and a dressing gown, and put thick socks on his feet.  He felt a little cold and lonely.  
  
         Shaking off morose thoughts, John found his earphones, and, plugging them into the tape recorder, he played the tape of their new songs.  It was a fairly good copy of the master, which was locked away in EMI’s vault in London.  It was still a work in progress, and John wasn’t sure if he was happy with the order of the songs, or even if one or two of the songs might not be a bit weaker than the others.  Would it be better to leave them off and have a shorter album, than to have “filler” songs?  John had always resented the “filler” songs they’d had to write during the Beatles.  Hell, back in those early days they had to write three albums and four 2-sided singles _a year_ – in fact, between 1964 and 1965 he and Paul together and between them had written over eighty songs!  Clearly, some of them were going to be crap.  
  
         John smiled at a memory.  


 

*****

  
        It was 1963, and they were somewhere in Britain, touring.  It was after midnight.  Paul and he had left the nightclub early, with George and Ringo still dancing, drinking and laughing away, in order to get back to their hotel room and write one more song.   One more fucking song.  What album was it for?  _Beatles for Sale?_ John had no idea which one it was.  They had already recorded every song they had ever sung together as a group, and still needed one more fucking song.  They had promised Brian and George Martin that they would be ready, and then they had put it off to the last moment, and here they were, after midnight, trying to write a fucking song when they were exhausted, drunk, and bored.  They had each lain on his own small single bed, periodically suggesting an idea to the other, only to see the ideas shot down in seriatim.  
  
         John had finally shouted out loud in utter frustration,  “ _The world is treating me bad_!”   
  
         Paul had chuckled in sympathy, and had shouted back, “ _Misery!_ ”  
  
         They had both looked at each other with new energy and had laughed raucously.  And that is when they wrote that piece of shit song, “ _Misery_ ”.  It was exactly how they felt at the time, but that had to be the worst thing they’d ever written.  A few other songs might vie for second place, but in John’s mind, ‘ _Misery_ ’ was the worst!  


 

*****

  
        Yes, John thought, as he brought himself back to the present, he _would_ persuade Paul to drop at least one if not both of the weaker songs.  Paul would resist the idea, because he sometimes developed an unaccountable affection for the oddest of songs.  But John would insist.  He had taken the bull by the horns in this, their new working relationship, and no longer allowed himself to be plowed under by Paul’s energy and enthusiasm.  It felt much more to him as it had done in the early ‘60s, when they used to each forcefully advocate for their positions, and finally the one who cared the most on a given issue would win.  John knew that his role as Paul’s editor consisted mainly of reining in Paul’s tendency to run off at odd angles.  If he didn’t play this thankless role, Paul’s worst songwriting habits would take over and sink them both.  
  
         The funny thing was, he had been so worried that Paul would be offended, or that his newly recovered sense of confidence would stifle Paul and lead to endless arguments, that he had been completely unprepared for it when Paul had openly welcomed John’s active involvement in the process, and had been surprised to see Paul blossoming under this discipline.  Truly, Paul’s work on this new album was incredible, although John had no plans to tell Paul how strongly he believed this.  When Paul was on uneven footing he always did his best work.  He needed obstacles, and a challenge, and someone forcing him not to choose the easy out, and John was custom-made for that purpose.    
  
         Yawning, John climbed in to bed and, missing Paul, opened a book.  It was almost an hour before he fell asleep, even though he was tired.  


 

*****

  
        The early morning air was crisp, and Paul’s eyes and nose stung a little in the wind.  Paul had spent the last hour and a half doing farm chores: feeding animals, a little mucking out, and a repair or two to fencing.  He wore a thick woolen jacket over ancient corduroy pants, strong leather gloves with the fingers cut out, and wellies that went all the way up to his knees.  He finished one last repair with a bang of a hammer, and stepped back to look across the field to the windmill.  He wondered if John was awake.  Probably not.  It wasn’t even 8 a.m. yet.  A mischievous thought danced through Paul’s mind, and he turned to clean and dry his tools and put them neatly away.  Having accomplished this task, he struck out across the muddy field in the direction of the windmill … and John.  
  
         It was early January 1987, and the next day he and John would be headed for London to get back to work on their album.  It had been a wonderful – almost idyllic - three weeks on the farm with all of his loved ones together celebrating the holidays.  John had been funny, warm, generous and loving not only to him, but also to Linda and their children.  Linda had clearly enjoyed John’s company, and she and Sean had continued to be each other’s crushes.   The kids were healthy and happy.  Best of all, Paul was no longer tortured by his muse; he was sated creatively by John’s intense involvement in their process.   It had been almost 20 years since John had been this involved in their partnership, and Paul had never been happier in his life.  Could everything possibly stay this good?  Would it all fall apart tomorrow?  Paul didn’t know, but had every intention of enjoying every second of this nirvana for as long as it lasted.  
  
         Paul reached the windmill, and quietly let himself in.  His eyes oriented to the dark as he made his way over to John’s bed.  John was wearing the most ridiculously conservative pajamas, and was bundled under several blankets and his wool coat.  The windmill was notoriously difficult to heat properly, but still…Paul grinned.  He then started to strip off his clothing, item by item, his eyes never leaving John’s beautiful sleeping face.   John actually had the look of an angel when he slept – no one could ever guess what a devil he really was by looking at that _punim_.  (Occasionally Paul channeled the Yiddish words he had learned from Linda and her brother John.)  
  
         Paul slipped in under the piles of blankets, throwing half of them to the foot of the bed so that they wouldn’t be suffocated once their bodies began putting off real heat.  Paul’s extremities were cold from the early morning air, and John squealed and jumped with shock when suddenly he felt cold hands and feet running themselves over his warm body.  
  
         “Christ Pud!  Your feet are ice blocks!  Get them off me!”  
  
         “You mean, you’re not gonna help me warm them up?”  Paul continued to rub his cold feet against John’s legs.  Even through the flannel of his pjs, John could feel the coldness.  But he couldn’t find it in his heart to push Paul away.  
  
         “Oh, alright, you git.  Here, get under my arm, I’ll hold you.”  John felt warmth generating in his lower tummy, and it was shooting up and out in every direction, and he no longer felt the coldness as Paul cuddled up against him, placing his head just below John’s right jawline.  
  
         “I thought this was your day to spend up at the house, since we’re leaving tomorrow,” John said teasingly, as he sketched a lazy design with a fingertip on Paul’s right arm.  
  
         “I was working up by the barn, and I happened to look up and see the windmill, and I couldn’t resist,” Paul said softly but cheerfully.  John embraced him even more tightly with those welcome words.  Paul was almost unrecognizable to John these days.  He was so endearingly loving to John, and so open about his desire for John’s loving.  For the first time ever John began to wonder if he might someday be equal to Linda in Paul’s heart.  
  
         “Hmmm…what was it you couldn’t resist, Pud?” John asked lazily.  “This?   Or is it _this_?”  John was pushing each of Paul’s buttons, and Paul was literally purring like a cat.  After a few minutes of this tomfoolery, Paul roused himself, and, grasping John’s chin between two fingers, he licked at John’s lips until they opened, and then his tongue plunged in without a ‘by your leave’.  “Ummmm…” John groaned as Paul moved on top of him.  John could feel Paul’s hard erection.  One of John’s hands went by rote to find and caress it, knowing by memory how well Paul responded to such handling.  
  
         Paul’s lovemaking that morning was languorous and erotic.  Paul was so completely invested in it.  With every touch, he wanted to convey to John how deeply he needed and wanted him.  He had never before attempted to show this to John so obviously and thoroughly, but felt it was long overdue.  John was holding nothing back from him anymore, so Paul felt he shouldn’t hold anything back either.  For maybe the first time in his life, he would just go for broke, and not worry about the consequences.  
  
         John certainly felt the difference.  He felt Paul’s deep absorption in him.  He’d never felt so adored and desired in his life.  John was a deeply generous person underneath all of his prickly defenses, and Paul had just waltzed right through the last obstacle of John’s Maginot line.   John was done for - a complete melted mess.  He luxuriated in each of Paul’s loving touches; in fact, his skin sizzled a tiny bit every time Paul touched him.  The kissing was passionate, but not frenzied, and neither were Paul’s hands, as they slowly and tantalizingly swept over his body.  Sex seemed beside the point.  It was touching and kissing that Paul wanted, and that is what he got.  
  
         Finally, Paul lifted his head and looked longingly into John’s eyes.  Paul had no more control over his tongue; the martinet that lived inside his alter ego apparently was bound and gagged and helpless to stop Paul from this headstrong and reckless course.  Paul felt his mouth opening.  He had no control over it.  The words were coming out, and he knew he should probably reserve them for another time, when he was absolutely sure of John, but again – it was beyond his control.  
  
         John could sense there was something momentous coming, but he didn’t know what it was.  His eyes opened wider in anticipation.  It couldn’t be bad – not after the last 15 minutes of unimaginable and completely unexpected bliss.  It _had_ to be good, whatever it was.  
  
         The words escaped from Paul’s mouth in a raw whisper.  
  
         _“I want to be with you forever.  Please don’t ever leave me.”_  
  
         The words hung out there in the cool dark space for several moments.  John couldn’t believe what he had heard.  But soon he focused on Paul’s searching and serious eyes and John allowed his eyes to smile.  Instead of answering verbally, John’s arm tightened around Paul, and his other arm pushed Paul first to his side, as John changed places with Paul and was soon on top.  Butterfly kisses rained down on Paul’s face, but finally stopped.  And then John whispered hoarsely in Paul’s ear:  
  
         _“Forever.”_  


 

*****

  
        The next day John and Paul, along with Sean, were back at their Maida Vale townhouse.  Sean had quickly scarpered off to his room with his favorite new toys, as John went upstairs to unpack and sort out laundry.  Paul, meanwhile, headed for the pile of mail on the sideboard in the hallway.  Bills, bills, bills, advertisements, lawyer letter, bank statement, bills, fan letters (how did they get through?  They were supposed to go to a fan mail post office box for secretaries to open.)  Some of the mail was for him, and some was for John.  There were also invitations for parties, art shows and events, and pleas from charities for money.  Here was an interesting one addressed to them both:  a delicate gold logo for “ _Art is Life_ ” appeared on an expensively embossed envelope, and it was addressed to “ _Messrs. John Lennon and Paul McCartney_ ” with a stark but elegant slashing handwriting.  Funny way to address the card – as if the writer knew that John and him were an item.  Paul shrugged and then followed John upstairs to relax for a few moments, pushing aside his worry that gossip about them had worked its way all the way up to people who raised funds for charities.  
  
         “Here’s the mail, _Messr. John Lennon_ ,” Paul joked, and let the pile fall gently on to John’s side of the bed.  
  
         John looked at Paul oddly.  “What are you on about then?”  
  
         “Oh, it was just one of the letters.  It was addressed to both of us as ‘Messrs’.  Weird.  Like they knew about us or something.”    He walked over to John and pulled him into an impromptu hug and then kissed him smack on the lips.  
  
         John squeezed Paul’s bum in response and then smiled in fond but bemused amazement.  This new Paul was a revelation.  In his wildest dreams he never thought he’d see the day!  
  
         Later that evening, after dinner, John decided to go through his part of the mail.  Paul opened up bills and lawyer letters addressed to the both or either of them, and John opened up the invitations and personal letters addressed to the both or either of them.  This tracked the roles they played in their life together.  Paul handled their finances and business, and John handled their social life.  
  
         He came to the strange envelope Paul had commented upon.   
  
_“Messrs. John Lennon and Paul McCartney ”_  
  
     John stared at the striking handwriting for a long while.  Where had he seen it before?  Curious, he opened the envelope and pulled out a high-grade stock embossed card.  The card purportedly came from a charitable trust, “ _Art is Life_ ”, which apparently raised funds through the arts for underprivileged London teenagers.  But what immediately grabbed John’s attention, and shocked him to his core, was the personal handwriting along the bottom and continuing on to the back of the card:  
  
        _Dearest John – It has been several months since we last “saw” each other, ahem.  My how time flies. Of course I didn’t expect to hear from you immediately after our little tiff, but I had hoped you would eventually realize an apology was in order.  I didn’t twist your arm, after all.  But that’s neither here nor there.  I am writing to seek a substantial donation to this extremely worthy cause from you.  I propose that we meet privately to discuss the donation on this Tuesday, 13 Jan, say 2 p.m.? at San Pascale in Knightsbridge.  The nosy lunch crowd should be gone by then.  Your ‘friend’ Paul is welcome too, although perhaps you would find that uncomfortable, given the topic we need to discuss.  Look forward to seeing you Tues. – Yours always, Nigel_


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John faces his nemesis, and renews some old friendships.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some questions to consider:
> 
> 1) How do you think George and Ringo would react to finding out about Paul and John's relationships?  
> 2) What do you think John should do to deal with Nigel's threats? And what he should do - does it match with anything he would actually do, given his personality?
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter.

         The 20th Anniversary of the release date for _Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band_ was coming up in June, six months away, and Paul was attending a meeting with the Apple and EMI folks on how best to promote the new limited release of the album.  George and Ringo were at the meeting too, but John had given Paul his proxy.  
  
         Paul was pleasantly surprised to see George there. They hadn’t met in a long time.  “Hey, stranger,” Paul said as he gave George a big hug. George had huge puffy hair again – wild and untamed – but (as usual) somehow George managed to carry it off with distinction.  George responded with an equally strong hug, which belied his otherwise dry reaction to Paul’s warm greeting.  
  
         The three former Beatles started to catch up with each other’s personal lives in a desultory way, holding up the start of the meeting because the Apple and EMI attendees didn’t have the nerve to interrupt the three Great Ones while they chatted.  
  
         “I hear John has a townhouse in London,” George said to Paul.  “Why isn’t he here?”  
  
         “You know John,” Paul responded.  “He hates this stuff.  He’s told me what he wants, and how to vote.”  
  
         George thought to himself, ‘ _yeah right – he’ll want what Paul wants, just like the bad old days_.’  But outwardly he nodded and said, in a much lower voice, drawing close to Paul.  “Ringo says you’re staying at John’s.  Is your marriage okay?”  
  
         Paul went into his smooth prevarication mode instantly.  "Oh, yes, yes.  Linda and I are great.  It’s just that John and I are actually working together again,” Paul slipped it in as if it wasn’t an amazing disclosure, “and the kids have to be in school back in Sussex.  So when I’m in London working – which is about half my time right now – its more convenient for me to stay at John’s rather than open up Cavendish.”  
  
         George had digested the big news without showing any of his utter surprise.  But he took a quick glance at Ringo, who gave him a _who knew?_ face.  
  
         “Working together again…hmmm…an album?”  George’s voice was almost bored.  He was showing a “polite interest.”  For this, Paul was grateful.  He really didn’t want to talk about the album.  He wasn’t ready to share yet.  
  
         “Yeah.  It’s a work in progress, “ Paul said with just as much lethargy as George had displayed.  
  
         Ringo spoke.  “We should all get together soon, just for dinner and some laughs.  I’ll talk to Barbara about setting it up.”  George and Paul acknowledged that it sounded like a good idea, and then they all turned to Neil Aspinall, the President of Apple, in an unspoken request that he start the meeting.  


 

*****

  
  
        Meanwhile, John hired a car and driver to take him to Knightsbridge.  It was Tuesday, January 13th, at 2 p.m., and he had his _own_ meeting to attend at San Pascale’s restaurant.  He had spent a horribly anxious four days ever since he had read Nigel’s note.  He had been stressing over how to handle the situation.  John’s magical thinking hoped that the insinuating comments Nigel had written were coincidental.  He hoped that it really was just an innocent request for a legitimate donation.  Nigel _had_ said that he did fundraising for a living.  But John’s darker, more realistic side told him the whole thing felt more like blackmail.  Several times over the four days he’d considered sharing the note with Paul, and coming clean about his night with Nigel.  But as soon as the idea would occur to him he’d shoot it down, because Paul had finally allowed himself to be vulnerable and openly emotional with John, and John feared that Paul would feel betrayed and clam up again.  No, he couldn’t tell Paul.  He would have to deal with this himself.  If all Nigel wanted was money, John was willing to throw it at him in order to protect Paul from this ugly truth.  
  
         John entered the restaurant, relieved by the dark ambience.  He didn’t need to be recognized, or for rumors to start.  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, John finally spied Nigel sitting in a discreet booth at the back.  Nigel gave him a slight wave hello, and John felt rage building inside him.  This man was a threat to his relationship with Paul, and John wanted to pound him to a pulp.  Instead, he gave Nigel a neutral smile and sat across from him in the booth.  
  
         “John, how good to see you again,” Nigel said, his face a study in irony, and his voice dripping with sarcasm.  
  
         “Cut the bullshit.  What do you want?”  John’s voice was low and threatening.  
  
         “We haven’t even ordered our drinks yet,” Nigel pointed out lazily, and then signaled a waiter.  “We can at least _pretend_ to be civilized.”   The waiter took Nigel’s order for a White Russian, and John’s clipped voice ordered a glass of water.  
  
         “I won’t be here long,” John told Nigel, who had mewed in distress over John’s refusal to order a drink.  “So what do you want?  Let’s get this over with.”  
  
         Nigel wasn’t about to let John control this meeting.  John had humiliated Nigel on that day when he was kicked out of the house quite unceremoniously like yesterday’s trash, and John was going to have to pay for this, in more ways than one.  
  
         “Are you in a hurry to get home to Paul?”  Nigel asked, his eyes reflecting fraudulent concern.  
  
         “You keep Paul out of this,” John snarled.  
  
         “Oh but, Paul already knows about us, doesn’t he John?  I did tell him about us when he called that morning.  So, obviously he knows about us, and he’s okay with it.  So what’s the worry?”  
  
         “There’s no ‘us’, Nigel.  And my personal life is none of your business.  What do you want?  I haven’t got all day.”  John was steaming under his collar.  
  
         “I was hoping to have lunch,” Nigel said.  
  
         “I already ate.”  
  
         “I haven’t.”  
  
         “Be my fuckin’ guest, but tell me – what. do. you. want?”  
  
         Nigel smiled as the waiter approached with his drink, and then he wasted a good five minutes exploring the expensive menu with the waiter before ordering.  John was livid, and could barely contain himself.  
  
         Nigel started to toast John with his drink, but John cut him off.  “I’ll knock that drink out of your hand if you try to toast me.  Now let’s get on with this.”  
  
         Nigel sighed.  “I’m sorry you’re so bitter about this.  I’m simply trying to raise funds for a good cause.”  
  
         “How much?”  John snapped.  
  
         “Don’t you want to hear about the charity?”  
  
         “No.  How much?”  
  
         “£75,000.”  
  
       John’s mouth dropped open in shock.  _“What?!”_ he gasped.  “No way!  £25,000 is the most I’m willing to donate.”  
  
       “See, I knew it would be better if Paul were here.  He no doubt knows that £75,000 is a standard donation amount for people of your financial status.  It’s a drop in the bucket to you after all.”  Nigel had an insincere smile on his face.  
  
       “What’s Paul got to do with it?” John demanded angrily.  “I’m the one you know, and you’re hitting me up for a donation.  I’m willing to donate £25,000.  Do you want it or not?”  
  
       Nigel stared at John for several moments and then smiled.    “I’ll accept the £25,000 under one condition:  that you set me up with your friend Paul so I can hit _him_ up for a donation too.”  Nigel’s smile was cold, and his eyes were angry.  
  
       “You will _never_ meet Paul!”  John was whispering, but his voice was extremely angry.  “You can take the £25,000 or leave it, but you’re _never_ getting anywhere near him!”  
  
       “Did you _lie_ to him about me, John?  Did you tell him we _didn’t_ sleep together?  Did you fail to mention the bit about me bopping up and down on your cock?  And the kissing?”  Nigel’s eyes were hard like flint now.  
  
       John was staring at Nigel with frustration and fear.  Nigel saw the fear and relaxed.  “Look, John,” he said in a much warmer voice, “a £75,000 donation for a good cause buys you peace and privacy.  Paul will never need to know the truth about our little tryst, and neither will the press.”  
  
       _The press!_ John heard the word and it shocked him.  This was much worse than he had feared.  It would be bad enough to have to tell Paul what he had done, and that he had lied about it, but the public humiliation _too_?  John shuddered.  He looked at Nigel, and Nigel saw the defeat in John’s eyes.  
  
       _Serves him right_ , Nigel thought to himself, savoring his victory.   
  
       John pulled the blank check out of his pocket, and scribbled in the £75,000 amount and pushed it over the table to Nigel.  Nigel grabbed for it, but John held it for a moment. “I _never_ want to see or hear from or about you again as long as I live,” John hissed.  Nigel nodded his agreement, and John withdrew his hand.  John then got up to leave just as Nigel’s food arrived.   
  
       “Can you give Mr. Lennon the bill, please?”  Nigel asked the waiter.  “He very graciously agreed to cover my tab.”   
  
       John glared at Nigel, but followed the waiter to the register, where he quickly paid for Nigel’s outrageously expensive lunch.  He then left the restaurant as quickly as he could, without looking back.  The light outside nearly blinded him for a moment, but he soon saw his car and driver and slid into the backseat.   
  
       John’s heart was pounding and his brain was racing.  _Blackmailed.  I’ve been blackmailed_ , John thought.  
  
       The car had gone a few blocks before John was visited by a horrible thought:  _blackmailers never stop_.  Would Nigel be back again when the £75,000 ran out?  


 

*****

  
  
       A few days later, John had managed to lull himself into believing that the Nigel Nightmare was behind him.   The fear he had experienced throughout that ordeal had made him want to cling to Paul even tighter.  His greatest fear was to lose Paul’s respect.  John thought that Paul would probably forgive him if he found out about that night, but he also feared that Paul would put the invisible wall back up again – the one he had finally just taken down.  John also believed that Paul would be extremely disappointed in him, because John had treated their relationship and their home in such a shabby way.  
  
       John shook these painful thoughts out of his head when the phone rang.  Ringo was on the other end.  
  
       “Ritchie!” John cried in warm surprise.  
  
       “Did Paul tell you about my plan?” Ringo asked.  
  
       “No, what plan?” John responded.  
  
       “I told him when we met last week that I’d put together a dinner for all four of us Beatles and our significant others.  Paul didn’t mention it?”  
  
       John snorted.  “This is Paul you’re talking about, Ringo.  If it doesn’t involve musical instruments he’s not likely to remember it.”  
  
       Ringo chuckled, agreeing silently with John’s point immediately.  “So, what do you think about the idea?  Barbara and I are renting right now, and it’s a pretty small place, so I thought we could rent a hotel suite.”  
  
       “Why not come here, to my place?” John asked without thinking first.  “Plenty of room.”  
  
       “Won’t it be too much trouble?”  
  
       “If it is, I’ll cater it.  Not a problem.”  
  
       “I’ll make the calls then,” Ringo promised.  “Let me see…George and Livvy, and Paul and Linda, and what about you John?  Anyone special you want to invite?”  
  
       There was an awkward silence on John’s end.  He had forgotten all about Linda.  How had that happened?  What could he do?  He could hardly tell Ringo he didn’t want to invite her.    He decided to create a diversion instead.  
  
       “No, I’m not seeing anyone special at the moment,” John responded in a dull tone.  
  
       “I’ll bet Barbara could fix you up – she has some really beautiful girlfriends.  Former models.”  
  
       John actually frowned at this, and then was grateful that Ringo couldn’t see his expression. “S’okay, Rings,” John chuckled, “I’ll find me own.”  
  
       “Well – the offer’s out there if you want a blind date…”  
  
       “Yeah, I’ve come all this way in life just to subject myself to blind dating.”  John was tiring of the charade.   “Look, about the dinner party.  You invite George and Olivia, and I’ll talk to Paul.  He's down in Sussex right now.”    Yeah, he’d talk to Paul all right, and he’d make it clear that no Linda was allowed!  
  
       Ringo quickly agreed, and then the two men settled on a date and a time three weeks hence.   


 

*****

  
  
       When Paul returned from Sussex a few weeks later, he was full of sexual energy.  After a night of very boisterous sex, John couldn’t believe his luck the next morning when Paul announced that this would be one of their “sex days”.  It had been some months since they’d last had one, and although John had made plans for that day, he had no problem forgetting all about them.  Based on the previous night’s activities, Paul clearly wanted to be dom, and John was more than willing to oblige.  
  
       Macca’s “sex days” had been something he’d dreamed up in the mid ‘60s, and had practiced regularly with all of his lovers.  Dressing (or _not_ dressing) the part was _de rigueur_.   That meant that every time they got up (briefly) to eat, Paul didn’t want any obstructions between him and John’s various orifices, so John put on only his short Japanese robe while in the kitchen.  He was busily making their late lunch – pasta with a pesta sauce – when Paul came up behind him, and wrapped his arms around John’s middle, while nuzzling his neck.  
  
       “Criminy, Paul, can’t you wait 30 more minutes?”  John chuckled.  
  
       “No.  I can’t.”  Paul responded promptly, while simultaneously pulling up the hem of John’s robe so as to expose his bum.   
  
       “I can’t concentrate on what I’m doing while you’re messing about like that,” John laughed.  
  
       “I should hope not!”  Paul chirped, rubbing his engorged member against John’s butt crack.  
  
       “Food and sex don’t mix!” John admonished.  
  
       “I agree.  Forget the _food_ –“ Paul had reached around and grabbed John’s cock, which had grown considerably in the last few seconds.  ‘You’re _hard_ , John,” Paul whispered roughly in his ear.  
  
       “Funny how that happens,” John responded, finally giving up on lunch.  He soon found himself bent over the kitchen table with his legs spread apart, and Paul’s fingers up his ass.  He might have felt a little embarrassed, because there was no dignity in the position, but John was incredibly aroused by then, and grew more so as Paul’s fingers withdrew, and John felt the tip of Paul’s penis pushing on his anus, urgently requesting entrance.  John winced a little as Paul successfully entered him, because he was sore.  This was what?  The _third_ time Paul had mounted him in the last 24 hours?  
  
       Soon Paul was thrusting away with abandon.  Seeing John’s ass up in the air like that was a never-ending turn-on to him.  Maybe they could just seal all the doors and windows and take turns fucking each other for the rest of their lives.  Paul started pumping John’s cock in a counter-rhythm to his own cock-thrusting.  Sometimes being a bassist had a very salutary effect on his sex life –and also on the sex lives of his sexual partners.  
  
       Both men were on the final edge of orgasm when the telephone rang.  It was a loud, strident, and completely unexpected sound, and it threw Paul off his rhythm at the most strategic moment.  
  
       “ _FUCK_!”  Paul shouted in aggravation.  John had growled in frustration at the same time.  
  
       “Just ignore it Pud,” John managed to plead, his voice slightly distorted because his left cheek was smashed against the tabletop.   
  
       Paul tried to regain his rhythm but the fucking phone kept clanging away.  He abruptly removed his cock and stomped over to the phone on the wall.  
  
       “ _WHAT_?” he demanded of the phone receiver.  
  
       A brief silence on the other end followed.  “Oh.  Hello. Is this John?” a voice asked.  
  
       “No it isn’t.  Who are you?”  Paul’s impatience and irritation were on clear display.  John remained hopefully bent over the table, but now his chin was resting on his left palm as he watched Paul’s out-of-character rudeness with a mixture of amusement and pride.  Amusement because John knew sexual frustration had driven Paul to this most unfamiliar behavior, and pride because he knew it was _his_ ass that Paul was frustrated about.  
  
       “I’m from _Art is Life_.  I’m calling Mr. Lennon to thank him for his generous donation to our trust,” the voice said mincingly.  
  
       “I’ll tell him.  He’s busy right now.  Goodbye.”  And Paul hung up abruptly.  He turned and saw John grinning at him.  “I see you’re still in the position,” Paul said with a naughty expression.   “Now, where were we before we were so _rudely_ interrupted?”  
  
       An hour later the two men were finishing up their pasta.  They had eaten their lunch in a lazy silence, each still basking in the afterglow of really hot sex.  Paul leaned back in his chair as he remembered the phone message.  
  
       “I almost forgot.  Some guy was on the phone for you earlier – that _rude_ phone call, remember?”  
  
       John nodded with a dreamy smile still on his face.  “Oh?  Who was it?”  
  
       “He wanted to thank you for your donation to some charity.”  
  
       John’s teacup smacked down on the tabletop.  “ _What_?” he croaked as he tried to catch his breath.  He cleared his throat and began again.  “What charity was this?”  His voice was shaking.  
  
       Paul thought about it for a moment.  “Something about ‘art’ I think?  Sorry.  It’s all I remember.”  Paul’s face lit up with mischief.  “I’m afraid I was a bit _distracted_ at the time.”  
  
       John managed to mirror Paul’s smile, but his heart inside his aching chest felt like a cold, heavy stone.   It had only been three weeks since he’d handed that asshole all that money.  What would he ask for this time?  And how did he get their telephone number?  He would have the phone number changed immediately.  At least Nigel didn’t get far in his apparent attempt to cause trouble for him, because Paul had hung up before the man could drop his poison.  Still, John was no longer under the illusion that he’d heard the last from Nigel and his “good cause.” 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four ex-Beatles share a cozy dinner together, and the wives go snooping...

         Ringo and Barbara arrived first.  They rang the doorbell beside the bright royal blue front door.  Moments later, John threw the door open.  A cat was winding between his legs.  
  
         “Come on in, let me show you around!” John declared cheerfully, grabbing their coats and hanging them in the hall closet.  They walked up a floor to the reception rooms, and John – secretly channeling Jane Asher and the 1966 Cavendish house party - proudly pointed out all of his design choices and improvements.  Ringo was quietly amused, stealing unbelieving looks at his old friend John every few minutes.  To Ringo’s memory, John had never been that interested in domestic arrangements before.  
  
         They eventually settled in the sitting room, where a fire was lit, and where John’s two cats milled around aimlessly for a while before settling on vacant seats.  John poured them some drinks, and excused himself to bring out hors d’oeuvres.  Barbara turned to Ringo and said, very softly,  
  
         “He seems quite settled here.  I don’t see any signs of a woman, though, unless she picked the art.”  The place was loaded with outrageously wonderful art pieces, Barbara had noted.  
  
         “He told me he’s not seeing anyone special right now,” Ringo whispered back.  
  
         “How strange.  He’s 45, and it’s been 2 years since he left Yoko.”  
  
         “He’s probably playing the field,” Ringo responded.  “Two divorces would certainly sober _me_ up about serious relationships.”      
  
         Barbara nodded as John returned to the room with a tray and set up the hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table.  
  
         Ringo next broke the silence.  “When’re Paul and Linda getting here?”  
  
         John’s movements halted only slightly as he registered Linda’s name.  “Linda can’t make it,” John said lightly.  “But Paul’s here.”  
  
         Ringo looked down to the floor, and lifted his foot as if he was searching for something small that he had dropped, and then laughed.  “Has he shrunk again, like in _‘Help’_?”  
  
         John smiled and said, “He’s upstairs.  He’ll be down soon.”  
  
         The doorbell rang.  “That must be George,” John said, and he went to answer the door.  
  
         Barbara looked at Ringo with concern in her eyes.  “Linda ‘can’t make it’ but Paul can?  That isn’t like them at all.  They are scarcely ever apart!  What’s going on with them?”  Ringo shrugged, because he’d had the same concern, but he had no answers.  
  
         Soon George and Olivia were ushered into the sitting room after their own brief tour of the reception rooms and kitchen.  George’s eyes were alive with amusement.  Apparently he too found John’s domesticity funny.  There were hugs all around, and John disappeared from the room after getting his new guests their drinks.  
  
         “Who is that guy, and what have they done with our mate, John?” George asked in his flat, ironic voice.  Everyone laughed.  “He’s almost unrecognizable.  He was showing us his fucking knife set!”  
  
         “He sure seems to have taken to this living on his own thing,” Ringo mused.  “I’m very grateful.  When Yoko divorced him I thought it was going to be very bad.”  
  
         George looked around and said, “So Paul and Linda aren’t here yet?”  Ringo and Barbara looked awkwardly at each other and then Ringo spoke.  
  
         “Apparently Linda can’t make it, but Paul is here.”  
  
         George blurted out, “What’s up with Paul?  Do you think he’s separated from Linda?  Why can’t he just be honest about it?  He just hates to admit fault or failure.”  
  
         Ringo still didn’t have any answers, but he didn’t feel comfortable leaving the gossip hanging in the air unchallenged.  “John did mention a few weeks ago that Paul was down in Sussex, so I don’t think we should read too much into it…”  
  
         “I agree,” Livvy said softly.        
        
         Just then they all could hear John’s voice echoing in the hallway outside the sitting room, and it was getting closer.  “The music isn’t going anywhere – you were supposed to be downstairs a half hour ago…” and then John entered the room followed by a sheepish-looking Paul.  John addressed the assembled guests.  “I had to go tear Paul away from…”  
  
         Before he could finish the sentence, George and Ringo jumped in to complete it with him:  _“…the piano_!”  
  
         Everyone laughed except Paul, who made his signature duck face.  
        
         Paul went about hugging everybody in his enthusiastic style, and then there were four Beatles and two Beatle wives sitting around staring awkwardly at each other for a few moments.  
  
         “Dinner is served!” John announced in a Hollywood movie English butler voice.  
  
         They moved to the dining room, where they all set about dealing with the salad course.  It was very quiet, and it began to feel strained.  
  
         “Don’t everybody talk at once,” George finally joked, and the ice cracked a little.   George turned to John.  “Paul says the two of you are working together again?”  
  
         John was grateful for a discussion topic, _any_ discussion topic, so he was more voluble about it than he otherwise would have been.  “Yeah, it’s been several months now, right Paul?”  John didn’t wait for Paul’s echo, although the echo came.  “It started out a little rough, but we’re really feeling the vibes now.”  
  
         “Can we hear some of it?” Ringo asked.  He realized this was a mistake when he saw how John and Paul reacted.  They did that thing where their heads both automatically moved in concert to look at each other, as if to meld minds before answering a question or making a decision.  The two men’s eyes had always held the contact for a longer period than was considered normal for two men.  After a long moment of this eerie communing, they seemed to have reached a silent but joint decision.  
  
         “We’re not ready to share it yet,” Paul said softly to Ringo.  “But soon.  We’ll play it for you before we play it for anyone else.”   Ringo smiled.  He had known it would be Paul who would answer his question, because the answer would require tact, and John always deferred to Paul when tact was required.  
  
         “That pretty much kills that subject,” George noted drily.  He had watched the interplay between John and Paul too, and it was bringing back that feeling of being left out that he had so resented for years.  In fact, he _still_ resented it.  The only thing that made him feel a little better about it in the past several years had been the fact that the two men had been at each other’s throats.  Now, here they were again, living in each other’s pockets.  George wondered if that was why Linda was not there.  John had never liked Paul’s women.  George had noted that.  John liked to snap his fingers and have Paul at his beck and call.  Strange.  Paul was a strong personality in his own right, and George never understood why he allowed John to order him around and put him down in front of others.  No one else was ever allowed to talk to or treat Paul that way.  
  
         The dinner party transitioned to the second course.  
  
         “You have some incredible art here, John,” Barbara said to fill in the awkward silence. “You must have been collecting it for years.”  
         “Oh, I lost most of my art collection in the divorce,” John responded.  “These are mostly from Paul’s collection.”  Everyone digested that information, with confusion being the by-product.  Why was Paul’s art hanging in John’s house?  
  
         “That beautiful sketch of you, John, that I noticed in your study.  That must have come from your collection.”  Barbara was determined to keep the conversation flowing.  Little did she know that she was creating awkwardness wherever she went.  
  
         “Oh, that sketch, yeah…” John stole a quick but intimate glance with Paul.  “A friend made that for me.”  
  
         “It’s really good.  It catches something in you, John – in the eyes maybe? – that I haven’t seen before.”  
  
         “Yeah, well, my friend is a very talented artist.  He just doesn’t know it.”  John’s comment was met with polite smiles.  No one knew what he was talking about.  Except Paul, of course, who was busy staring at his hands as he fiddled with the food on his plate.  
  
         Barbara admitted defeat.  She honestly could not figure out where to segue from there.  
  
         With Barbara’s fall, Ringo took up the guide-on.   “George, what are you working on these days?”  
  
         George met Ringo’s eyes with a wry twinkle, as if to say, _nice one, Ringo_ , but instead he treated the question seriously.  “I’ve been doing some one-off shows, you know, but I never want to tour again as long as I live.  But I have been working with Jeff Lynne lately, and we’re quietly excited about it.”  Unspoken was the fact that George’s last album, released five years earlier, had not been a success either critically or commercially. And they all knew that George’s 1974 Dark Horse tour had been…well, it had taken its toll on George.  
  
         “And what about you, Rings?  What’re you up to?”  John had dutifully stepped in to the breach.  
  
         “I’m finally done with _Thomas the Tank Engine,_ ” Ringo said.  
  
         “My son loves that show,” Paul chirped.  
  
         “And, my son Zac and I performed together not long ago.”  
        
         “Oh yeah!  I read about that!  Imagine it – Zac all grown up.  Julian too.  It’s weird, that.”  Paul’s voice slowly petered out.  
  
         The third course was wheeled in, and everyone waited quietly while it was served by the caterer.  
  
         As this happened, all four men were probably thinking the same thing, each about themselves as well as about each other:  how the mighty had fallen.  The ‘80s were a dry decade for the ‘60s and ‘70s British rockers.  As Paul described them in a song he was writing at the time, they were “custom made dinosaurs.”  If they weren’t all still so famous, it perhaps would not feel so awkward.  These had been four extremely hard working lads back in the day, and the idea of them being famous for just being famous didn’t sit comfortably on any of their shoulders.

 

*****

       The last course had been served, and the plates were being cleared.  Everyone sat back in their seats and looked around at each other for direction.  
  
         “Well, aren’t we a cheery bunch,” John finally announced after another long awkward pause.  
  
         “You can’t manufacture magic,” George said cryptically.  
  
         “No, but you can pretend like hell you can, and maybe it will kick-start something,” John responded, having decided to take the devil’s advocate approach.  
  
         “Is that John Lennon asking us to be dishonest?” George laughed.  
  
         Paul was uncomfortable with the atmosphere.  He said, “Let’s jam a little!  We’ve…John’s…got all sorts of instruments up in…his music room.”  
  
         George looked like he was going to say no, but Olivia poked him with her elbow and gave him a firm look.  Hearing no ‘nays’, Paul said, “Let’s go up and pick some instruments and bring them back down to the sitting room, where it’s more comfortable.”  
  
         When the men had trooped out of the room, Barbara and Olivia followed at a slower pace, and while the men continued up to the top floor, Barbara and Olivia stopped on the third floor, where the bedrooms were.  “Let’s check out the rooms,” Barbara whispered.  She was an inveterate lover of checking out other people’s homes.  Olivia smiled in agreement, and they headed for what appeared to be the main bedroom.  
  
         “Everything’s white in here except the art work,” Barbara commented.  “That’s how John’s apartment was when he was with Yoko.  I wonder if he still misses her, and hopes she’ll take him back?”  
  
         Olivia, meanwhile, had gone to the bedside table where there was a stack of books to see what John was reading.  Biographies, novels, books about philosophy and the art of argument, a book about male sexuality…Olivia opened it up, and it fell open to a bookmark (shaped like a penis!), and the subject was ‘rimming’.  There were some pretty graphic photos of women doing men, and men doing men.  Olivia shut the book quickly and put it back, a little shocked by what she had seen.  She knew about rimming, of course, but seeing photos of it being done was a whole other thing.   She turned away from the bedside table, and then noticed more books piled on the other bedside table.  She went over to look at those.  These were mainly technical books about music mixed with comic books (of all things), but there were also a number of books about nature and science.  The two piles made for a very weird collection.  It didn’t seem like the same man would have such wildly varying tastes.  But John was nothing if not unusual.  
  
         “Oh my God, Livvy!”  Barbara was calling her from the master bathroom.  
  
         “What?” Olivia asked as she headed in that direction.  
  
         “Do you see what I see?” Barbara asked – pointing to the medicine cabinet, which was wide open in front of her.  Olivia looked, and all she saw was the usual stuff:  a razor, a toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream…She looked at Barbara in confusion.  Barbara then opened the neighboring cabinet and Olivia saw the same things in there.  Barbara became impatient with Olivia’s failure to notice the obvious, and finally explained.  “There are two sets of everything, and the toothpastes and shaving creams are different.”  
  
         “So?”  
  
         “So, to me it looks like John is sharing this room with a man.”  
  
         Olivia remembered the vastly different stacks of books on either side of the bed and said nothing.  She and Barbara shared shocked but titillated looks with each other as each of them privately took that hypothetical one step further…  
  
         “No!” Olivia finally whispered.  “It can’t be.  George has repeatedly told me about John’s exploits with women.”  
  
         “He could be bisexual,” Barbara pointed out.  “He wouldn’t have necessarily shared that info with George and Ritchie.  Or they could be covering for him; you know that Beatle loyalty.  And it would certainly explain why he isn’t with another woman 2 years after his divorce.”  
  
         “And why he wouldn’t want to tell us about it,” Olivia added softly.  “I wonder if Paul knows.”  
  
         Barbara looked at Olivia and wondered if she should say what she was thinking out loud.   Why the hell not?  It was just a thought, after all.  “What if Paul is the one,” she said in a low voice.  “It would explain why no Linda…”  
  
         Olivia’s shocked face met Barbara’s.  “If that were true, I feel sure George would have known!”  
  
         “Maybe they weren’t…together like that…before.  Maybe this is new…or maybe he does know and won’t say…”  
  
         “Barbara, stop.  I feel terrible snooping.  Let’s get out of here before someone catches us.”  
  
         Barbara giggled and said,          “Let’s go see if Paul is staying in one of the other guest rooms – if he is, that will certainly put an end to my speculations!”  Reluctantly, Olivia followed.  Truth be told, she was intensely curious about this suggestion of Barbara’s, even though she was equally ashamed of herself for it.  
  


 

*****

  
  
        The men had selected their instruments, and were back in the sitting room and starting on their third drinks.  The awkwardness was gone as they started quarreling good-naturedly about who was doing what with which instrument. There were putdowns and laughter and genuine moments of fun.  All four men were relieved as they felt the mood lifting and lightening.   They hadn’t noticed that the women weren’t there, and so were a little surprised when they suddenly entered the room.  
  
         “What the hell have _you_ been up to?”  John asked in his cheeky way.  
  
         “Snooping, no doubt,” Ringo joked.  
  
         “We were just touring the house, John.  You’ve done a beautiful job with it.”   Barbara looked at Paul then.  “And your art collection is incredible, Paul.”   Olivia nodded shyly, and was glad that her warm complexion could not show how furiously she was blushing.  She and Barbara had been unable to find any sign of Paul staying in one of the other bedrooms (one was obviously Sean’s, and the other was your garden variety empty guest bedroom), and so they both – shamefacedly but emboldened by their curiosity now – had gone back to the master bedroom and searched the closets.  Sure enough, they had found things that they believed were Paul’s intermingled with those that were John’s.  They shouldn’t have done it.  And now that they thought they knew what was going on, what the hell were they going to do with the information?  Olivia couldn’t imagine telling George any of this.  He would be furious at the very idea of it, and also he would be disappointed in her for sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.  
  
         Paul smiled at the compliment and said, “I have so much art, I don’t know where to put it all.  I can’t stop buying it.”  
  
         “He’s going to leave it all to Liddypool, right, Paul?”  John was only half teasing him, because he suspected that Paul had something like that in mind for his art collection after he died.  
  
         “Shurrup, you horse’s ass,” Paul laughed. “Liverpool would throw it all back in me face, if I did.”  
  
         “Yeah,” George added,  “Liverpudlians hate charity.  Sign of weakness.”  
  
         The women were soon forgotten as the men got back into their instruments.  Barbara  (who was more than a little soused already) and Olivia poured themselves some drinks, and settled in a corner of the sitting room to gossip in conspiratorial whispers about what they had discovered.  
  
         Thus, the evening ended on a high note, and John and Paul sure looked like a couple to the two wives as they watched the two men hugging their friends and waving goodbye to them while standing together on the front stoop.  Barbara and Olivia smiled at each other knowingly as they paired off with their respective husbands and headed for their cars.  
  
         The car door was barely closed behind the Starkeys, and the driver had just pulled away from the curb, when Barbara hit the button that brought up the soundproof privacy glass.  She had no intention of allowing the driver to overhear what she had to say to her husband.  
  
         “You’ll never guess what,” Barbara said to Ringo.  
  
         “You’re right.  I won’t.  So what?”  
  
         “Olivia and I believe that John and Paul are living together.”  
  
         “Well, of course they are.  They said so themselves.  While they’re making the album.”  Ringo was confused.  Barbara wasn’t usually this obtuse.  She generally picked up even the nuances in conversations that he had missed.  
  
         “I don’t mean they are sharing the space, Ritchie,” Barbara said patiently.  “We think they are actually _living_ together.”  
  
         Ringo remained confused.  What was the difference between them sharing the space and living in it together?  
  
         Barbara could see the confusion and knew that this was Denial at work.  She would have to spell it out.  “They’re sleeping in the same bed,” she finally said.  
  
         Ringo jerked backwards and then laughed.  “They always did that, Barbara.  There’s nothing weird about it.”  
  
         “What do you mean they always did that?”  
  
         “When we were on tour.  They almost always shared rooms, and sometimes even the same bed.”  
  
         “Didn’t you find that weird?”  
  
         “No, of course not.  We most of us had to share beds with each other at one time or other.”  
  
         “But not by choice, surely.  Wasn’t it because you couldn’t afford extra rooms?”  Barbara was beginning to wonder if Ringo could possibly be as dense as that…   
  
         Ringo thought about it.  This was true.  George and he and stopped sharing beds with the others the moment there were enough beds to go around.  Was he remembering wrong?  Did he really remember seeing John and Paul sharing a bed when there were two beds in the room available to them?  He couldn’t clearly remember now, but whatever he had seen back then had seemed natural to him at the time.  
  
         “What are you saying, Barbara?  Are you implying that they…well…that there’s more to their relationship than friendship?”  
  
         “Yes!  They’re in their _forties_ Ritchie!  Men in their forties don’t share beds with each other when they have other options _unless_ they want to have sex.”  
  
         Ringo jerked again at the word “sex”.  He thought this was a crazy conclusion, so there must be some other, more logical explanation.  
  
         “Maybe they just feel less lonely when they’re in the same bed,” Ringo said, “assuming that it is true and they are sharing, which as far as I can tell is just a guess on your part.”  
  
         “Ritchie… _really._ Paul has a wife, and if he is lonely, he can go be with her.”  
  
         “But John has always been a bit needy…Paul might be doing it just to comfort John.  You really can’t jump to conclusions with those two.  They are just really close to each other, freakishly close, and they always have been.  If it had been more than that, George and I would have noticed.”  
  
         Barbara was frustrated with her husband’s refusal to stare reality in the face, but she could tell by his expression that he was through talking about this subject.  So, she shrugged, and leaned back in her seat.  And she wondered what John and Paul were up to at that very moment…  
  
         Her thoughts brought a blush to her cheeks.   She, for one, found the prospect of John and Paul having sex to be _very_ arousing.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Five Scenes**  
>  1 - Ringo has doubts, reaches out  
> 2 - Paul has an ulterior motive  
> 3 - "We need a producer"  
> 4 - John has a lot to think about  
> 5 - Ringo comes to visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must take the time to thank _gdelgiblueeyes_ (LJ) for his expert advice about potential producers for John and Paul. I knew nothing, and I merely channeled his knowledge in the relevant scenes.
> 
> Thanks so much _gdelgiblueeyes_! To the extent I made mistakes, they're mine, not his!

         Ringo fidgeted for days before picking up the phone and calling George.   He and Barbara had not spoken about the topic of John and Paul’s living arrangements since the ride home in the limousine, but Ringo had been thinking about it on and off, regularly, ever since.  
  
         Although he had acted as though the idea of John and Paul having an affair was a crazy one when Barbara suggested it, some previously unacknowledged voice in his head was telling him, _you have always known that it is true_.  Now that Barbara had brought the subject out in the open, Ringo found that he could not stop the flood of memories from washing over him in odd moments.  Moments when just _looking_ at the expression on John’s face when gazing at Paul had seemed like an invasion of privacy.  Moments when he thought he’d seen – via the outermost periphery of one eye – John quickly withdrawing his hand from a loving stroking of Paul’s hair.   Moments when he’d thought he heard sounds through the walls of hotel rooms – sounds that came from the adjoining room shared by Paul and John, and which woke him up out of a dead sleep and made him feel both uncomfortable and aroused.  And moments when, near the end of the Beatles’ run, Paul had seemed utterly devastated and alone without John by his side.  He remembered how John and Yoko suddenly moved out of Cavendish and into his townhouse on Montagu Square.  No one had ever explained to him why it was suddenly such an emergency.  
  
         Ringo asked himself what he thought about it.  Was he shocked?  Disgusted?  Disgusted – no.  But shocked?  Maybe a little.  Both men had clearly enjoyed lots of sex with lots of women, and both men had clearly loved their wives and steady girlfriends (at least for a time).  This was a fact, not an opinion, and that fact more than anything else had kept Ringo from ever listening to this newly louder inner voice of doubt.  He had been in hotel rooms with both John and Paul while they were engaged in sexual liaisons with women, and there had been no faking or pretending going on there.  So, what the hell?  
  
         Bisexuality.  It was a fact of life that the four of them did not know or understand while growing up in Liverpool.  By their teen years, all four of them had heard about queers and lesbians, of course, but no one ever spoke about people who were attracted to both sexes.  In Hamburg they had seen all kinds of sexual behavior, but it was so over-the-top that it seemed to be something that happened only on the margins of society, not right in the middle of it.  In other words, it wasn’t the kind of behavior you expected to find in proper neighborhoods.  It wasn’t until about 1966, when the Beatles stopped touring, were let loose from their little Beatle bubble, and started hanging out with the artsy elite in London, that they had first really learned about bisexuality.  It was all around them at the time.  It seemed that everyone was experimenting with it, circa 1966.  
  
         It must be bisexuality.  That could be the only explanation.  And John and Paul had been so utterly close – he had used the words “freakishly close” when explaining it to Barbara – that they had lulled everyone into thinking that this was just the nature of their friendship:  _Nothing to see here_.  
  
         Ringo knew he had to compare notes with George.  George had a way of cutting right to the center of the matter, however ruthlessly, heartlessly leaving conjecture and fantasy on the cutting room floor.  Ringo half hoped that George would tell him he was full of hot air.  On the other hand, Ringo also felt a fugitive hope that it was true.  John and Paul were like one entity, and - at least in the best of all possible universes - they needed to be together.  
  
         George came on the other end of the line, and Ringo could hear the affection and warmth in his voice as he said, “Hey, Ritchie.  What’s up?”  
  


 

*****

  
  
       “ _Paul!_ ” John shouted down the stairwell.  He was on the 2nd floor when the music started pumping through the stereo intercom.  “What the hell are you playing?”  
  
         “What?”  Paul shouted, as he walked from the sitting room into the hallway, and leaned back to see John leaning down from the floor above.  
  
         “What the hell is that you are playing?”  
  
         “That’s Talking Heads’ _Remain in Light_ ,”  Paul shouted back, a smile hidden behind his face.  
  
         Silence, as John listened to the song playing, ‘ _Once in a Lifetime.’_   Then, after about 40 seconds, John opined.  “I like it.”  His head then disappeared, and Paul chuckled to himself as he returned to the sitting room.  When the song finished, he put on another record.  He waited.  Counted one, two, three…  
  
         “ _Paul_!”  
  
         “Yes, John?”  Paul asked, already looking up from the 1 st floor landing.  
  
         “What the fuck is _that_?”  
  
         “It’s a new group – U2.  The album is ‘ _Joshua Tree’_.  What do you think?”  
  
         Silence.  The sounds of _‘With or Without You’_ wafted through the house.  
  
         “That’s fucking awesome,” John finally opined.  
  
         “The whole album is like that.  It’s incredible,” Paul said, smiling to himself.  
  
         Paul left the album on, and went about his business humming happily to himself.  


 

*****

  
  
      “We need a producer,” Paul suddenly said as he and John were seated in the control room in Studio 2 of EMI, after listening through the existing master of their recordings thus far.  
  
         Their presences there, and all of their previous visits, were the subjects of Top Secret strategies and directives by EMI executives, who didn’t want to lose the custom of Lennon & McCartney, so did everything in their power to preserve their privacy as they had demanded.  Miraculously, their time in the studio together had not yet leaked to the press.  Paul knew it was largely due to the fact that in 1987 he and John were not among the vanguard of press and paparazzi targets.  Frankly, while a great relief, it was also disconcerting.  The competitive part of Paul wanted to be there again, even if the private Paul dreaded the personal exposure again.  
  
         “Why do we need a producer?”  John asked curiously.  “We’ve basically finished the whole damn thing already.”  
  
         “Objective third set of ears?” Paul mused.  “Like George Martin used to be for us.”  
  
         “George Martin always liked you best,” John said, with a smirk on his face.  
  
         “Probably because I didn’t treat him like a know-nothing nobody,” Paul chided him back.  
  
         “Who did you have in mind?”  John asked.  
  
         “Jeff Lynne is hot.  He’s doing a great job with George I hear,” Paul suggested.  George’s newest work-in-progress album, “ _Cloud Nine_ ”, was getting some great underground raves, and this information had of course made it to Paul’s always interested ears.  “But he is probably too busy right now because of that.”  
  
         “George would have a cow if we stole his producer,” John pointed out with a laugh.  
  
         “Yeah, especially if our album outsold his,” Paul said in a suddenly sober tone of voice.  Paul seriously wanted to avoid that possibility, as opposed to John, who thought it might be fun to give George a run for his worshipped money.  
  
         “I had a good time working with Chris Thomas on ‘ _Back to the Egg’_ ,” Paul mentioned.  “He’s a rock-edged set of ears.”  
  
         John, who remembered Chris Thomas from _The White Album_ , considered that idea and quickly dismissed it.  “I think we should work with someone neither one of us has worked with before.  And I really don’t think we need a real producer.  Just a set of ears.”  
  
         “Why don’t we interview a few people – try them out in the studio a bit – and see who works best?” Paul suggested.  “I was thinking Brian Eno and Daniel Lanois might be interesting – they have that new wave sound…”  
  
         “Who the hell are they?”  John asked, surprised that Paul had all these names on the tip of his tongue.  
  
         “Well, Brian Eno produced the _Talking Heads_ …you remember I played _‘Remain in Light’_ for you a few days ago; and he and Daniel produced _U2_ ’s album _Joshua Tree_ that you liked so much.  They’re pretty much credited with creating the ‘new wave’ sound in music.”  
  
         John frowned.  _New wave_.  That sounded depressingly foreign and trendy.  “I think we’re better off doing our own thing, rather than aping what is popular now.”  
  
         “But the thing is, ‘our own thing’ has always been heavily influenced by other music.  Remember Dylan?”  
  
         “True,” John nodded.  “Well, alright, if you think it is necessary, let’s audition some of these people.  But I’m not sold on the idea that we need a full-fledged producer.  We have a strong voice, you and I, and I don’t want to see it diluted by someone who doesn’t have the track record you and I have.”  
  
         Paul nodded, and then got up and went down to the studio, re-focusing his attention on his bass guitar.  He began to noodle out a bass line for one of the songs.  John stayed in the sound booth, lazing back in his chair, and watching Paul lose himself in music.  He smiled fondly, and thought yet again how lucky he was to have found his opposite number.  So few people ever do.  


 

*****

  
  
       “ _WHAT_?”  George’s voice was like an off-key trumpet shouting directly into Ringo’s ear.  
  
         “Didn’t Olivia say anything to you about this?” Ringo asked, suddenly worried that he had started something he shouldn’t have.  
  
         “ _Olivia?_ What has she got to do with this?”  George was nonplussed.  
  
         Ringo sighed.  “That night we were at John’s place,” Ringo said, “Barbara and Olivia toured the house.”  
  
         “Yeah, so?”  George’s emotions were in a kind of controlled free-fall.  He didn’t like what he knew he was about to hear.  
  
         “They came away with the impression that John and Paul were sharing the same bedroom – the same bed – despite the fact that there were 2 other free bedrooms.”  
  
         George was silent as he digested this.  
  
         Taking a deep breath, Ringo persevered.  “They found their personal items intermingled in the master suite,” Ringo said, wishing that George would make this easier on him.  But George remained silent.  “I just thought I’d let you know what Barbara and Olivia think,” Ringo added awkwardly.  “So you wouldn’t be the only one of the four of us who didn’t know.”  
  
         George finally exhaled, unable to stop his irritation with the wives.  “They shouldn’t have done that; it was none of their business.”  George’s voice was censorious.  
  
         Ringo laughed.  “You might as well tell the waves to stop breaking; we’re talking about women here.”  
  
         “This is the sort of thing that should remain private.  It isn’t anything I’d ever want to know about.”  George sounded disgruntled.  “And I’m not convinced it is true.  You’d think if stuff like that was going on, you and I would have noticed it.”  
       
         “I sometimes have a hard time believing it too,” Ringo said carefully.  “But then…” Should he tell George?  
  
         “But then _what_?” George asked.  
  
         “There were times, back in the ‘60s, when I wondered…”  
  
         “Wondered about _what_?”  George’s voice was truculent.  He obviously didn’t like the direction this conversation was headed in.  
  
         “Well, didn’t _you_ ever wonder?  They often acted like they were, well, _infatuated_ with each other.”  
  
         “They had a creative vibe together.  That can easily be misinterpreted.”  George had no flexibility in his voice.  He clearly was not open to considering other options.  
  
         “Okay, so, just so you know what the girls are saying.”  
Ringo felt embarrassed he had even raised the subject.  
  
         George grunted.  “We know them better than anyone else, Ritchie,” George said, in a slightly less intimidating tone.  “Do you really believe they could – well – do _that_ to each other?”  George’s voice expressed all the disgust he felt when he said the word “that”.  
  
         Ringo was set back on his heels by it, and his tolerant nature rebelled.  “What do you mean by ‘ _that’_ , George?  Are you really that prejudiced?  After everything we’ve seen and experienced?”  
  
         George quietly objected to the criticism, but was still nursing his feelings of automatic disgust.  He was a homophobe from way back.  He had had real trouble with Brian Epstein’s sexual orientation, and had objected if Brian had come into the dressing room while he was changing.  Brian, at least, had quickly ascertained this, and afterwards had been discreet enough to only enter the dressing rooms when he was sure they’d had enough time to change, and even then he would knock before entering.   As a young teenager George had idolized first Paul, and then John, and then, slowly, he had felt excluded and resentful as Paul  - who had been his best friend – had drawn ever closer to the awe-inspiring John Lennon.  George had been in the unenviable position of both losing his best friend Paul while realizing he was a nonentity in the eyes of his idol, John.  The two of them were completely – as Ringo had put it - _infatuated_ with each other.  But George had never seen their connection as sexual.  It was _unthinkable_.  
  
         “Well, I thought you’d want to know what the wives were thinking,” Ringo said in a faint voice, realizing that George was just not open to this possibility.  
  
         “Yeah, thanks, but, come on- we _know_ them.  I can’t see them doing _that_ to each other – especially _Paul_!  Ritchie, think about it – _Paul!_  John might be curious and experimental, especially when he’s high, but _Paul_?”  
  
         _Maybe we didn’t know them as well as we thought we did_ , Ringo said to himself as he hung up the phone.  


 

*****

  
  
         It was a quiet moment on a humid and overcast late summer morning, and John was in a contemplative mood as he sat at the breakfast table, and his coffee grew cold.  Everything had happened so fast, and it all seemed to be going so well…too well, one might say.  John’s therapy was going very well.  He was working on his fear of abandonment, which had played the major villain’s role in John’s private movie for lo these many years.   He had not yet opened up to Fiona about Paul, though.  In fact, he didn’t discuss the “Paul Thing” with _anyone_.  They had been left alone by the tabloid press – they were irrelevant now, and would be until the album was ready to be released.  And their friends had not seemed too surprised or even curious about their living arrangements, although of course John had plausible explanations at the ready that he regularly trotted out to satisfy any such questions.  All of this meant that John felt safe and protected in the home he had made with Paul, and he had even come to comfortable terms with the sharing arrangement with Linda.  
  
         Speaking of Linda, John’s relationship with her had once again picked up steam.  Earlier that summer, John and his sons had accompanied the McCartneys on the annual summer vacation, this time in the Caribbean, and he had spent almost every morning (while Paul was off playing music) with Linda.  They would stretch out next to each other on lounges by the pool, tanning and talking.  They started reading the same books, and discussing them.  They would smear each other with suntan lotion, and it was a friendship thing, not a sexual thing.  John hadn’t really ever had a pure friendship with a woman.  His previous friendships with women had all involved at least some level of sexual _innuendo_ if not the full-blown variety.  What he had discovered was how warm, calm, caring and _centered_ Linda was.  John knew that although Paul often appeared to be calm, collected and in control, he was also intensely emotional and extremely high strung.  This aspect of Paul was one of the things that John had first noticed and most loved about Paul – you could almost see him _vibrating_ if you stared at him long enough.  No wonder he loved and needed Linda.  John actually felt his own blood pressure going down in direct proportion to how much time he spent in Linda’s company.  
  
         Working together with Paul again was transformational for John.  He really believed in himself and his talent again, for the first time in two decades.  There was a new strut in his walk as he negotiated the intricacies of the recording studio.  He and Paul had settled on Brian Eno and Daniel Lanois to help them edit their work, and to act as an objective sounding board when he and Paul were both uncertain about something.   John smiled to himself as he remembered how Brian and Daniel had quickly learned _not_ to intervene when he and Paul were disagreeing about something.  When the producers attempted to weigh in on one side or the other, both he and Paul had turned on them and told them in no uncertain terms to stay out of it!  Linda had a saying that she had imparted to John once, and it always made him laugh when he thought of it: _When the elephants dance, the ants get squished!_  
  
         And Paul.  Well, John had never before penetrated this far into Paul’s inner life.  He had never really felt Paul’s vulnerability before.  The depth of the trust Paul showed in him amazed John, who had – in the past - often been closed out of Paul’s life at sudden odd moments.  John knew that Paul had deep insecurities too, and that those moments of pulling back had more to do with Paul’s own issues than they did with anything John had done to cause it.  But still, it had always been hurtful when it happened.  Now it didn’t happen anymore.  If Paul looked sad or worried, all John had to do was ask, and Paul would tell him what was bothering him, his eyes filled with trust.  
  
         _Trust._ It was that word that had caught John by the ankle at the last moment just before his clean escape, and had resulted in the look of despair that fleeted across John’s face just then, as he reminded himself for the millionth time that he had trapped himself in a lie.  A lie that could completely unravel all of the wonderful things John had been able to accumulate in his life in the past year.  John could forget about it for days and even weeks.  It had been months since that phone call when Nigel had called to “thank” him for his “donation”.  John had waited for days after that for the sword to fall and behead him, but Nigel had seemingly disappeared.  Perhaps Nigel had been thwarted by John’s act of immediately changing the phone number.  But it was at moments like these, when John had sufficient time, peace and quiet to really meander in his mind, that suddenly Nigel would raise his ugly head.  
  
         By now John had figured out that the original crime was not as bad as the cover up itself.   At the time of the Nigel affair he was so guilt ridden and filled with the fear of losing Paul that his only possible reaction was to deny, deny, deny.   Now he was in this terrible position, because he had finally earned Paul’s uttermost trust.  Now John had something priceless to lose.  The bitter irony of it never failed to let loose his self-contempt monster.  
  
         _I have to do something about this_ , John thought to himself, forcibly shaking himself out of the hopelessness he had begun to feel.  His therapy had taught him a few strategies to deal with those feelings of helplessness when they threatened to overwhelm him, and the most important one was to find some small step to take – only _one_ was necessary – in a positive direction.  


 

*****

  
  
       Ringo had called and asked if the three of them could get together for an end-of-summer boys’ night, so John had invited Ringo over on a night when Paul was in town.  Both men were looking forward to Ringo’s uncomplicated company.   When he arrived, be bore a gift – a 30 year-old half-gallon bottle of scotch whiskey.  
  
         “I see we’re going to have a serious evening,” Paul joked as he hefted up the bottle and read the label.  Then he whistled.  “Did you need to take out a loan to buy this grog?”  
  
         “Nothing but the best for my best mates,” Ringo said cheerfully, causing John to groan.  
       
         “I’ve already got to deal with Pollyanna here,” John said grumpily, waving in Paul’s general direction, “so don’t _you_ start!”  
  
         They ate a light meal and then settled in the sitting room with the bottle of scotch.  They were three fingers each into the bottle before Ringo was able to broach the subject.  
  
         “My wife went crazy when we were last here, and took a tour of the upper floors,” he said in what he hoped was a light-hearted, jocular manner.  
  
         “Yeah, I remember.  What was that all about?”  John asked.  
  
         “I think Barbara is a frustrated interior designer,” Ringo chuckled.  “She always wants to see the whole house when she visits someone.”  
  
         John was a little confused.  He couldn’t figure out why Ringo would even start this weird conversation when there was ancient scotch to be enjoyed and memories to plumb.  
  
         “Olivia went with her,” Ringo added.  “No doubt she was dragged kicking and screaming by Barbara.”  The silence of his audience had started to resound in his ears.   Paul was staring with that ‘bitch face’ look of his into his glass of whiskey, and John was staring at him with a look of complete bafflement.  
  
         “What are you on about, Ritchie?” John finally asked.  
  
         Ringo took a deep breath.  But before he could speak, Paul did.  
  
         “And they noticed that we share the bedroom.”  
  
         Both Ringo and John were staring at Paul with identical looks of shock on their faces:  John, because he never would have made that leap of logic, and Ringo because he was again reminded that it never paid to underestimate Paul.  
  
         “Oh.”  This was all that John managed to emit.  
  
         “Yeah, _oh,_ ” Paul said, a twinkle in his eyes as he gazed with fond amusement at John’s stricken face.  Paul shifted his gaze to Ringo.  “And you want to know what’s going on with us, is that it?”  
  
         Ringo sighed again.  “I don’t really need to know one way or the other, but…if it is true, I mean, if there is more to…well…”  
  
         John was still processing the fact that his little safe haven had been so completely transparent to these two women who he barely knew.  
  
         But Paul felt sympathy for Ringo.  “You mean, if it is true that we are lovers…?”  
  
         Ringo was grateful he didn’t have to say the word.  “Well, if it is true, you know I am okay with it.  Totally.  That’s all I wanted to say.  It doesn’t change a thing for me.  And we don’t have to ever mention it again.”  
  
         John was searching for something to say, but couldn’t think of a dang thing.  He just turned to Paul and shared a meaningful _what the fuck?_ look with him.  
  
         Paul laughed out loud at the absurdity of John’s baffled silence and Ringo’s embarrassment.  “Well, now that we’ve got _that_ settled, lemme have some more of that scotch…”  
  
         Just then the doorbell rang.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the next exciting chapter of...well. I hope it's exciting. Or at least entertaining. Or mildly interesting. :)
> 
>  **No Warnings Necessary** except Huge Dislike Of Nigel.

        Just then the doorbell rang.  
  
         John was just barely recovering from Ringo’s sudden disclosure of his deep dark secret, so Paul jumped up to answer the door.  
  
         There was a man on the doorstep with a wry smile on his face.  
  
         “Hullo,” Paul said.  
  
         “Yes, hello, I came to see Mr. Lennon,” the man said respectfully.  
  
         “Sorry, but what’s this about then?”  Paul asked.  The man seemed presentable enough.  He had closely cropped salt and pepper hair, and was groomed to within an inch of his life.  Paul had a lurking distrust of people who were over-groomed, but he knew that this prejudice of his wasn’t entirely fair, so he consciously tried to hold it at bay.  
  
         “He has been kind enough to donate funds to our charity trust in the past, and we are really in need of another substantial donation at this point…”  
  
         “It’s kind of unusual to come to his door this way.  This is not at all the usual way.  If you give me your card, I will give it to John.  I’m sure he’ll put his finance manager in touch with you if he’s interested.”  
  
         The man smiled easily.  “Oh, well, you see, John _did_ ask me personally to give him a status report on the trust, so I thought I’d give him a quick briefing in person, if he can spare a few moments.”  
  
         “Oh?  Well, what is your name please?”  Paul asked.  
  
         “Tell him it is the ‘ _Art Is Life Trust_ ’ calling.”  
  
         Paul thought the whole thing was a bit off, so he asked the man to stand on the doorstep while he closed the door, locking it behind him.  He then went upstairs.  John and Ringo were laughing like old pals again by the time that Paul got back to the sitting room.  
  
         “John, there’s a bloke at the door who says he’s from a charity you’re interested in – _‘Art is_ _Life’_.  He says you asked him to give you a quick brief on the status of the Trust.  Is he for real?”  
  
         John’s back had been to Paul when this announcement was made, so John was able to quickly hide his shock and tamp down his racing heart a bit.  He hoped Paul would ascribe the flush in his cheeks to too much scotch.  He moved as slowly as he could, trying to appear only vaguely interested in the information.  “Yes,” John finally managed to say lazily, “Unfortunately, he’s for real.  He’s also a little too persistent.  I will get rid of him.”  
  
         As John made his way down the stairs, Nigel was waiting on the doorstep, his heart racing.  This was mainly because he was excited about putting the fear of god into John again and squeezing more money out of him, but also – surprisingly – because Paul was so fucking beautiful in real life that it had made Nigel’s heart stop for a few moments.  He quickly brushed that thought away, as he heard the door lock being turned.  
  
         John dreaded what he was going to find when he opened the door.  He had given himself a pep talk on the way down the stairs, and had put on a game face.  There was nothing he could do about the racing of his heart, but he was determined this time not to allow Nigel to have the upper hand.  As the door opened, it revealed his nemesis standing in the pool of warm yellow cast by the porch light.  Nigel.  
  
         “How dare you come here!”  John hissed, his voice low and threatening.  
  
         “Well, I had to get in touch somehow, since you changed the telephone number.  We have matters of great importance to discuss.”  
  
         “I will _not_ discuss these ‘matters’ with you again – that was our deal – and most definitely I will not discuss them _here_ , at my home!”  John was feeling the rage bubbling up from the cauldron of his stomach.  
  
         Nigel smiled easily.  “Paul really is beautiful.  One tends to forget how much so with the passage of time.”  
  
         John’s rage was now battling with an intense feeling of impotence.   “Not here.  Not now.  You have to leave.”  
  
         “If not here, where?  If not now, when?”  
  
         John felt murderous, but also helpless.  He said nothing.  
  
         “We can meet for lunch at _San Pascale’s_ again – say, next Tuesday at 2 p.m.?  It can be _our_ place and _our_ time, for those times when we need to meet to discuss the _trust._ ”  Nigel’s eyes were sharp and hard as he said this.  He was letting John know that he would never let him off the hook, and that he might as well get used to it.  _This could be the start of a beautiful friendship_ , Nigel chuckled to himself snidely.  
  
         John was shaking with fear and anger in equal amounts.  He had really gotten himself into a mess this time, and he really didn’t see a way out.  “I will meet you there,” John spat out, “but you’re only going to get to push me so far before I snap you know.”  There was a warning in that statement, but Nigel wasn’t bothered by it because he held all the cards, and there was nothing John could do about it.  
  
         The door slammed in Nigel’s face, and he heard the lock turn.  He shook his head, smiled bitterly, and turned to walk to the nearest high street to catch a cab.  The euphoria over torturing John had begun to subside, and the fear and depression began to take over again.  
  
         Things hadn’t been going so well for Nigel lately.  His lifestyle tastes and choices were far more expensive than he could afford, not to mention his gambling and cocaine habits, and now there was the matter of his illness… As he thought of it, Nigel was filled with fear and disgust.  Some filthy club player he had met had infected him with the gay cancer.  He had only just found out about it a few months earlier, and now he was facing expensive medical bills and procedures, a much shorter lifespan, and a painful, lingering death. The disease had been sheltering in his body perhaps for years before it became active.  All of this caused him to believe that he was entitled to John’s money, and he also felt entitled to make John feel as miserable as he, himself, felt.  Life had handed him a whole orchard full of rotten apples, so he felt it was only fair if he shared the harvest.  


 

*****

  
       While John was downstairs confronting Nigel, Paul was up in the sitting room with Ringo.  He had more to say to Ringo about his relationship with John, and felt it would be easier for both of them if John weren’t in the room when it happened.  
  
         “I appreciate you warning us about what your wife thinks,” Paul started easily.  He didn’t want to appear hesitant or embarrassed, or it would make Ringo uncomfortable.  “I get your point.  If she and Olivia can see it so easily, so can anyone else.”  
  
         Ringo nodded slightly but then said, “George doesn’t believe it.  He refuses to even consider it.  I’m afraid he has some rather old-fashioned views about…”  
  
         “He’s homophobic, I know.”  Paul finished easily. “Or, he thinks he is.  But not really.  When he knows a person who is homosexual, so long as they don’t flaunt it in his face, he is a good friend to them.”  
  
         Ringo looked at Paul with respect and affection.  “I am worried he might do or say something rude to you about it…”  
       
         Paul laughed out loud.  “ _Might?_ There’s no ‘ _might_ ’ about it.  He wouldn’t be George if he didn’t get at least one good one off at our expense.”  Paul laughed again and then added, “And that’s okay.  We can take it.  We’ve all said much worse to each other over the years, and survived it.”  
  
         “Ain’t _that_ the truth,” Ringo agreed, raising his whiskey glass up in a symbolic clink.  
  
         Ringo had a lot of questions.  There was so much more that he wanted to know, now that the ice had been broken.  But he hadn’t the nerve to ask.  Luckily or unluckily, depending on how you looked at it, at just that break in the conversation, John returned.  
  
         John surveyed the comfortable tableau and said, “Whew!  That bloke is a nut job!”  
  
         Paul looked a bit worried.  “Is he dangerous at all?  Remember that guy that was hanging around the Dakota before – the one they arrested while you and Yoko were here in London, and it turned out the guy had a gun?”  
  
         John thought back to those long ago days and remembered, shivering a little at the memory.  
  
         Paul continued:  “If there is any chance he is dangerous, you should consider getting a restraining injunction against him – in order to keep him away from the house and the offices.”  
  
         John’s stomach turned yet again at the need to tell another half-truth to Paul.  “No, he’s not dangerous.  He is just persistent to a fault.  But I did tell him I would never talk to him at my home about his charity, and I think we’re square on that.”  
  
         “What is this charity about?  Isn’t this the same guy who called us that day when we were f...” Paul remembered Ringo.  “When we were having lunch?  I remember the weird name, “ _Art is life’_.”  
  
         “Yeah, same guy,” John admitted.  He wanted Paul to drop the subject, so instead of making up more lies about a fictitious charity, he turned to Ringo and suggested that they all have one more solid round of scotch before they called it a night.  


 

*****

  
       Tuesday at 2 p.m. at _San Pascale’s_.  John’s mouth was dry as he again entered the dark restaurant.  Nigel was sitting in the exact same booth.  _Déjà vu_ all over again.  John slid into the seat opposite Nigel, and folded his hands in front of him.  
  
         “So what is this all about?”  John asked directly, staring aggressively into Nigel’s eyes.  Nigel even flinched a little from the onslaught, but quickly recouped his cool.  
  
         “The ‘Trust’ needs another substantial donation,” Nigel said firmly.  “It is going through a rough patch.”  
  
         “Oh?  How so?”  John didn’t blink and continued to hold Nigel’s eyes captive.  
  
         “It has gone in a different direction in the last few months…it has begun to fund certain medical research.”  
  
         John was flummoxed.  _What?_ For a moment John almost thought that perhaps “the Trust” was for real.  Then his natural skepticism came back into play.  “Oh?  Would this ‘research’ involve recreational drugs by any chance?”  
  
         Something flickered in Nigel’s eyes for a moment, and then was extinguished.  Instead, Nigel said, “I am sure you have heard about this new disease, AIDS,” Nigel said in a lowered voice.  He didn’t want anyone to overhear what he was saying.  
  
         John of course had heard of AIDS.  He and Paul had both gone through some pretty scary moments in the early ‘80s when news about the “4-H disease”, “GRID”, and “the gay cancer” was all over the place.  _Just our luck_ , they had joked with their usual black humor.  Here they’d spent 12 years without fucking each other, and just when they started up again – AIDS!  They were completely asymptomatic, but according to the newspapers this was not unusual at first.  So they were grateful when the AIDS test became available, and both had been given a clean bill of health.  With that, they had promptly forgotten about it as a threat to each other.  _It wasn’t as if they had other “at risk” sex partners after all_ …John’s thought process came to an immediate screeching halt _._  
  
_Oh fuck no!  Why hadn’t he thought of this before?_ John’s eyes were round platters of horror and surprise as they slowly focused on the present and Nigel’s saturnine expression.   It was like a horror movie, it really was.  One of those nightmarish ones, like “ _Wait Until Dark_.”  Here he really was, though, it was really happening to him, he was stumbling around in the dark, wondering what was around each corner.  John had never really believed in the whole sex with Nigel thing, not really, since he had absolutely no recollection of it at all.  He had tried desperately to push it entirely out of his mind, and apparently had done so with such finesse, that he hadn’t even thought of this obvious risk!  John’s mouth was in the shape of a perfect “O”.  
  
         Nigel watched the expressions racing across John’s face, and for a brief moment – very brief – he actually felt some empathy for John.  He had reacted just this way when the doctor had told him about his death sentence… But Nigel couldn’t afford compassion now.  In real life terms, Nigel knew John was out of danger because they had not really had sex.  The only fluids exchanged were John’s to Nigel, and not vice versa.  But John didn’t know that, and he clearly was putting 2 and 2 together and coming up with 105.  So much the better for Nigel’s financial situation.  
  
         “I have been diagnosed HIV positive, and I am developing signs of the active disease.”  Nigel let the statement hang out there in mid-space for a few moments.  He took a deep breath.  “I think you must have given it to me.”  
  
         John had not been expecting this blow.  “ _Me_?  No way!  I was HIV negative in several different tests, and I can prove it.  This is all _your_ doing, not mine!”  
  
         Nigel hadn’t expected the news that John had been diligent about testing for the disease, so he knew he had to change course in midstream.  “Well, it didn’t become active until _after_ we had sex,” he muttered.  
  
         “I don’t think that is _my_ fault,” John responded back.  “You might have infected me!”  John’s eyes were huge and his breathing was frighteningly heavy.  John’s thoughts were running along a very ragged path.  “And if _I’m_ infected, then…” He stopped in mid-sentence.  _Paul_.  And _Linda_.  It was a fuckin’ Armageddon!  There was no way that he could keep this from Paul now!  And since he had put Paul’s beloved Linda at risk…Paul would never forgive him!  
  
         “So you’ve fuckin’ ruined my life, is that what you’re telling me?”  John’s voice was flat and bitter.  
  
         “You don’t know if you’re infected, John.  You should get a  test.  But either way, I need money – a lot of money – to pay for the medicine so I can prolong my life, and stave off the symptoms.”  Nigel’s voice was equally flat and bitter.  “I have no intention of going through the National Health."  
  
         The two men stared at each other in silent distrust for a few moments.  And then John spoke.  “I can’t believe the nerve.  You put me and the people I love at risk, and then you demand that I _pay_ you for it?”  
  
         Nigel shrugged.  “I need the money desperately.  It is a matter of life and death to me, literally.  And you have the money that I need.  I’m in a position to expose you to the world – I can read the headline now:  _‘Beatle John Lennon gave me AIDS, and now I’m dying and he won’t help me…’_ Something like that.”  
  
         John’s rage got the best of him and he pounded the table with a loud thud.  The other diners and the wait staff all looked up in surprise.  John forced a fake smile on to his face until he saw everyone look away.  “How much is it this time?” he demanded out of thin, tightly wrought lips.  
  
         “I’m going to need at least £2 million,” Nigel said.   
  
      A huge rush of breath left John’s throat.  “ _Wha…aaa..?”_  
  
      “My doctor gives me about two years max, and there are experimental treatments in France I want to try, and I estimate this will all cost me about £1 million per year.”   
  
      “I don’t have that kind of cash lying around!  What makes you think that I can just hand out £2 million in cash to you on the drop of a dime!”  
  
      “You have assets you can liquidate, and then you can deposit those funds into a bank account in the name of my charity.  I have a specific account.”  Nigel had found his legs again, and was speaking in a reasonable, businesslike tone.   
  
      The waiter came and delivered Nigel’s lunch.  John grabbed the bill and whispered harshly across the table, “I’ve got to think about this.  This is not a simple fix.”   
  
      “That’s fine.  So long as you get back to me soon – say, next week?  Next Tuesday, here?  Same bat time, same bat station?”   
  
      John nodded grimly in agreement, and, stopping only to pay the bill, stomped out of the restaurant.  He made it to the back seat of his car, and the driver was pulling away, before John’s eyes filled with angry and fearful tears, and soon they were flowing down his face.  He was absolutely terrified.  And devastated.  How had something so small, so stupid, ballooned into this blight on his entire life?  


 

*****

  
      Something was terribly wrong with John.  Paul felt it in his bones.  John had come home one afternoon and he looked as though his soul had been sucked out of him.  At first, Paul put it off to one of John’s many and varied moods.  But, now, three days later, it wasn’t a _mood_ so much as, well, it was like John had been a busy and brightly lit house, and now all the lights were out, and he was dark and empty.   
  
      Then, today, Paul had gotten a call from one of the accountants in Eastman’s office.  The man had hemmed and hawed around for a while before Paul had demanded that he spit out what he had to say.   
  
      “The other day, Mr. Lennon asked me to look into a very strange financial arrangement,” the accountant finally blurted.  
  
      “And so, you’re calling _me_?  Why?  Isn’t this something you should discuss with John?”  
  
      “I just wondered if you knew why he would be interested in such an ill-advised transaction.”   
  
      _Ill-advised?_ Paul did have a power of attorney for some of John’s financial affairs (this had been necessitated by John’s abhorrence of actually handling such affairs, and so his financial advisors had reached out to Paul in despair).  This meant that the accountant had the legal right (and maybe even the obligation?) to apprise Paul of strange transactions.  
  
      “So what is this transaction that has you so concerned?”  Paul finally asked.  
  
      “He claims it is for a charitable trust.  A substantial donation.”  
  
      Paul’s brain went ‘click’.  “ _’Art is Life?_ ’” Paul asked wearily.  
  
      “Yes – so you know about it?  I can’t find any record of it in the charitable foundations indices.  Not anywhere.”  
  
      “That is odd,” Paul said calmly.  “How much?”  
  
      “That’s the part that bothered me the most.  £2 million.”  
  
      _“£2 million?_ ” Paul’s voice actually sqeaked.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is On the Case.

_“2 million pounds?_ ” Paul’s voice actually squeaked.   
  
       There was a dubious silence for a moment while the accountant summoned up his nerve to speak.  “Of course, clients do have their favorite hobby horses, and their little tax fiddles.  See it all the time.  But not often in an amount _this_ large.”  
  
       “How did John plan to find that much money?  I know he doesn’t have that much cash lying around.  If he did, John Eastman and I wouldn’t be doing our jobs properly, would we?”  Paul was getting worried now.   
  
       “He asked me to find something I could sell off quickly,” the accountant said, relief coursing through him that he’d finally found the nerve to dump this problem on someone else’s shoulders.  
  
       “Have you done it yet?”  
  
       “No.  That is why I called you.”  
  
       “Thanks for that.  You were right.”  Paul thought a few more moments and then asked, “Did John tell you where to _put_ the money after you get it?”  
  
       Paul heard pieces of paper rustling over the telephone line.  “Here it is – an account number in a Swiss bank.”   
  
       “Hmmm…charity my ass,” Paul mumbled.  He knew charities didn’t have secret bank accounts – in order to get the tax benefits they needed to have transparent, auditable accounts.  “Give me the number.”  Paul wrote it down with a stern frown on his face.  Something was up.  His mind had leapt to the one person he considered to be a financial threat to John – Yoko.  Was she up to her old tricks?  Was she finding ways to manipulate John out of his money again?  He hadn’t thought Yoko cared that much about it anymore.  Although he and Yoko would never be friends, they at least were cordial to each other when he would pick up and drop Sean at the Dakota for visitation transfers.  (Paul fulfilled this critical role because John and Yoko couldn’t help getting into screaming matches right in front of Sean if they met in person, so Paul had put his foot down, and that was that.  Even Yoko had quietly acquiesced.) Paul had genuinely believed that Yoko was completely over the drama of her life with Lennon, so it was an unexpected and unpleasant thought that she might have started meddling again.  
  
       His next call was to John Eastman.  They discussed the transaction, and Eastman understood exactly what was needed without having to be asked.  The private money channels would be tapped again, and informal ‘off the record’ information about the “secret” Swiss account would soon find its way into Eastman’s hands.  He had employed this method during the John/Yoko separation to great success.   
  
       Paul knew it would be a day or two before he would hear anything from Eastman, but his concern for John was heightened later that evening when John came back later than usual from what he said was a therapy session.  Paul decided he had to do a little discreet poking around in order to get a handle on what was going on with John.

 

*****

  
       As they sat across from each other at their late dinner, Paul said, “You’ve seemed really down in the dumps for the last few days.  Is your therapy opening up old wounds?”  Paul’s eyes were open and caring, and John’s eyes teared up.   
  
       “Yeah.  And I’m not feeling all that well.  I went to see the doctor this evening.”   
  
       “The doctor?  What is wrong?  What is the problem?”  Paul’s mind was whizzing with frightening possibilities.  _Cancer?_  
  
       “Don’t know.  Just under the weather.  He took some tests.”  John felt guilty about the prevarication.  He had mentioned to his doctor that he might have been exposed to AIDS a year earlier, and the doctor had given him the tests, and told him he would rush the results and have them available the next day.  He had also advised John to tell his “sexual partners” to get tested too.  
  
       John could see that Paul was deeply concerned.  “The doctor said that it could be something like mono, you know, an immune deficiency thing.  He said it is contagious, and so I’m thinking that maybe you should get tested too.”   
  
       “For mono?  But John, I don’t have any symptoms.  You’ve always been such a wimp when it comes to getting sick.  I’m sure it’s nothing.”  
  
       John nodded.  He couldn’t go any further.  He would have to see what the tests said, and then he would have to figure out what to do next.   


 

*****

  
       It took only a few hours for Eastman to get the information he sought.  Apparently the account holder had only a few thousand dollars in the account, and only had the one account, so he was not a high profile customer of the Swiss bank; consequently, there had been no trouble in getting the information he sought.  The sole signatory on the account was one Nigel Lawson-Fielding, with a post office address in London.   
  
       Eastman next called one of the British lawyers he used for litigation in England, and they had a quiet discussion.  That lawyer was soon on the line to a private investigator in London.   


 

*****

  
       John found it impossible to leave the immediate vicinity of the telephone.  Whatever room he was in, he huddled near it.  If Paul came in the room, John would find an excuse to leave the room and hover over a phone in a different room.  When the call finally did come in from his doctor, John didn’t want Paul to overhear the conversation.  
  
       At first Paul didn’t notice that John would leave the room shortly after he came into it.  But after about the third time, he went looking for John with concern on his face.  He found him hunkered at the kitchen table, staring at the telephone.  Paul sat down across the table from him and waited until John met his eyes.  
  
       “Did I do something wrong?  Are you mad at me?  You’ve been acting different for days, and now you won’t be in the same room with me.”  Paul’s face was filled with hurt.  John hated to see it.  Of course, he hated _everything_ just now!  He was suffering from insomnia – he would awaken in the middle of the night in a pool of sweat after having terrible dreams of losing Paul to some mysterious ‘other’.  He had noticed that his stomach was always in a knot, and now it was starting to cramp frequently, resulting sometimes even in dry heaves.  His head was always pounding with an insatiable headache.  No amount of disprin could make the slightest dent in it.   
  
       “John?  _Answer me._ Tell we what’s wrong!  My imagination is doing cartwheels.  It’s scaring me.  The truth _can’t_ be as horrible as all the things I’m imagining!”   Paul hadn’t meant to break down like this.  He had hoped to get more information about the bank account before he raised the subject with John.  But he couldn’t bear to see John suffering so, and he himself couldn’t take it any longer either.  
  
       John was watching him warily.  “It’s _nothing_ , Paul.  I told you.  I’m not feeling well is all.  And I’m waiting for my test results; it’s got me a bit nervous.  My doctor said he would call.  When it comes, I want my privacy.  That’s the reason I keep moving away.”  
  
       Paul felt as though John had just slapped him.  He was being told in no uncertain terms to back off and butt out, and Paul was surprised at how much this hurt him.  He got up quietly, and left the room without saying a word.  
  
       John was too worried to notice that he had hurt Paul’s feelings.  Paul’s _feelings_ were the last thing on earth that worried him now.  It was Paul’s _health_ that was at stake, and the very existence of their relationship.  


 

*****

  
       Dinner that night was a cold, silent affair.  Paul had clammed up and was pouting.  He wasn’t talking to John.  John noticed this, but was relieved instead of concerned.  So long as they didn’t talk, Paul couldn’t ask John uncomfortable questions that he didn’t want to answer.  John’s obvious relief only caused Paul to feel even _more_ hurt and estranged, so he pouted some more.  No words were spoken beyond an occasional “can you pass the peas?” sort of thing.  The sound of forks clanging against plates seemed to echo in the quiet room.   
  
       Paul was lost in his thoughts.  On one level he knew that John was extremely worried about something.  He said it was his health, but as far as Paul could see, the only health problems John had were related to the stress he was under:  A bit like the proverbial cart before the horse.  On another level, Paul’s insecurities had been aroused, and now he had started doubting himself.  He had only recently finally come to believe that John really did love him unselfishly, and had his back.  He had concluded that John’s love for him really was a bit like Linda’s – it was something you could count on through thick and thin.  He had seen it in John’s eyes, and it had warmed him to the bottom of his soul.  And now John was cold and empty, blocking him out.  As far as Paul could tell, he had done nothing to cause it.  But then, Paul also knew that he himself was clueless sometimes.  He knew he sometimes said really insensitive things to people without even realizing how insensitive they were until he saw their hurt or angry expressions, or found out about it later in some published interview.  Had he done this again?  Had he said or done something insensitive to John that he could not forgive?   
  
       Suddenly the telephone rang.  The jangly sound shocked both men out of their dreary thoughts.  Their eyes flew up to meet each other’s and Paul saw an almost desperate look on John’s face as the phone rang again.  Instinctively, Paul put his fork down, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and left the room.  John grabbed the phone on its third ring.  
  
       “John, I’m sorry to call this late,” his doctor said, “but I had emergency surgery this afternoon, and just got back to my office and saw your results.  I thought you would want to know as soon as possible.”  
  
       John didn’t say anything.  His voice wasn’t working for some reason.  
  
       “It’s excellent news, John.  You are HIV negative.”  
  
       The relief John felt was palpable.  But then the worry crept in again.  “Before, I had to be tested every six months for two years.  Will I have to go through that again?”   
  
       “It isn’t a bad idea to get tested again in six months, John, but the date of your potential exposure was 15 months ago, and if you had contracted HIV I believe it would have turned up in your test by now.  So, it is only from a strictly belt and suspenders point of view that I suggest you test again in 6 months.  I’ll send you a reminder card.”  
  
       John’s hand was shaking as he hung up the phone.  He felt relief pouring out of every pore.  Tears were running down his face.  He was stunned, staring at the hand that was still resting on the phone receiver.   
        
       “ _John?_ ”  The voice was soft and filled with fear.  John looked up and saw Paul lurking in the doorway with anguish on his face.  “What’s wrong?  What’s happened?”  
  
       “No-nothing.  I’m fi-fine.”  John was able to blubber.  
  
       “But you’re crying.”  
  
       John’s hand rose up to his face, and it touched the wetness there.  He was surprised by this, and wiped some of the wetness away.   “I’m just relieved, is all.  My tests were all negative.  I’m fine.”  
  
       Paul crept into the room tentatively.  He wasn’t sure that John wanted him there, and he was ready to be shooed away at the drop of a single word.  But John said nothing, so Paul took his seat again, and reached his arm across the table, holding his hand out in a proffer of empathy.  John grasped Paul’s hand and squeezed it, allowing his eyes to show the relief he felt while Paul steadily held his gaze.  
  
       “You really were worried about being sick, weren’t you?”  Paul asked softly.  “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.  It seemed so unlikely; you’ve been so healthy.”   
  
       John nodded but could find no words.  He just squeezed Paul’s hand again.   This was one huge thing he didn’t have to worry about any more.  The only thing left to haunt him was the Lie:  The Lie and the blackmail.  John had left himself vulnerable to public and private exposure and humiliation, and he had lied to Paul, put him at risk, and simply didn’t deserve his trust.   But maybe, John thought hopefully, if Nigel got the money he would leave him alone.  It was a lot of money, and maybe it was the best solution.  John really couldn’t face the look of disillusionment and distrust that he knew he would see in Paul’s face if he told him the truth after all this time.     
  
       Paul got up, and walked around the table, and pulled John up by his arm.  “Let’s go to bed, John.  I think you need a good night’s sleep in somebody’s arms.”  Paul’s arm found its way around John’s shoulder as they headed towards the staircase.  “And, it just so happens that my arms are available tonight.”  


 

*****

  
       John’s mood had rebounded a bit after his health scare, and Paul thought he noticed the old spring renewed in John’s step.  He began to feel foolish that he had overreacted so badly to John’s moodiness.  And so, John Eastman found Paul in a good mood when they connected via telephone the next day.  
  
       “So this is definitely not a charity, Paul,” Eastman said.  “It is a man who appears to live beyond his means in a mews in South Kensington.  His name is Nigel Lawson-Fielding.  Do you know him?”  
  
       “Lawson-Fielding?” Paul repeated.  “No.  I don’t.  What does he do?”  
  
       “Nothing, as far as I can tell,” Eastman responded.  
  
       _Lawson-Fielding.  Lawson-Fielding_.  No, it didn’t ring any bells.  Wait.  _Wait._ “Did you say _Nigel_?”  Paul asked, every nerve in his body now on alert.   
  
       “Yes.  Do you know him?”  
  
       Paul’s brain flashed from one memory to the other.  Nigel on the phone, claiming he had slept with John; the ‘ _Art is_ _Life_ ’ charity telephone call; the man standing on the doorstep, insisting upon talking to John in person.  It had only been a few days later that John had come home looking as though he had been thunderstruck.   
        
       “Paul?  Are you still there?”  John Eastman’s voice sounded concerned on the other end.  
  
       Paul regained his composure.  “Yes, I’m fine.  John and I know a man called Nigel.  Let me talk to John about this, and I’ll get back to you.  In the meantime, don’t do anything about the money transfer.”  
  
       “Aye, aye skipper,” Eastman chuckled.  “I don’t envy you that conversation!”  John Eastman hung up wondering what the hell was going on.  But he also knew that he would probably never find out.  Paul was like a black hole in space when it came to keeping his loved ones’ confidences.  
  
       Meanwhile, Paul was in a quandary.  He now thought he saw the pattern.  He just didn’t know what to think of it.  All this time, when he was in Sussex with Linda, John must have been here in London with his other lover.  This Nigel person.  That could explain why overnight he had stopped being fussed about Paul’s departures.  And now John wanted to set his lover up with a little nest egg, apparently, and hoped to do so without Paul finding out.   
  
       _But wait.  Wait.  Could that even be true?_ John had seemed so sincere in his denials of an affair, and Paul had never had any suspicions about John’s activities when he was in Sussex.  Hell, they talked every night at 10:30 p.m. when he was in Sussex!   But if it was true, Paul could only imagine how horrifying it must have been for John to have Nigel show up on his doorstep with Paul answering the door to him!   
  
       Was Nigel threatening John with exposure?  Wasn’t that a more likely possibility than John being able to keep such an explosive secret from him for so long?   He could easily see John having an affair.  John had always been sexually promiscuous, and had never been faithful to anyone.  Paul really didn’t like to think of John having sex with another _man_ , though, but it was really very naïve of him to think it had never happened, just because he didn’t want it to be true.  But what Paul couldn’t really fathom was John having a _serious_ affair with another man.  It didn’t make any sense.  So, wasn’t it more likely that John had had a brief affair, tried to end it, and then ended up on the business end of an exposure threat?   Blackmail?   It would explain John’s jumpiness and erratic behavior, and it also would explain his poorly thought out attempt to hastily transfer 2 million fucking pounds to a Swiss bank account.  
  
       Paul knew it was time to confront John with what he knew, although he dreaded it.  But first he really did need to know how he would feel if John confirmed his suspicions.  Could he deal with John’s infidelity with another man?  Paul didn’t know.  He just didn’t know.  It was all so unreal and unlikely.  He wished not for the first time that there was someone he could talk to, but Paul didn’t have many confidants – mainly just John and Linda, truly – and neither of them would suffice in _this_ situation!   


 

*****

  
  
       Ringo was surprised to receive an unsolicited call from Paul on a Sunday morning.   
  
       “What’s up?” Ringo asked cheerfully.  
  
       “Do you have some time to meet with me today?” Paul asked.  
  
       “Yes, of course, but…what is it?  Is everything all right?”  
  
       “Yes, yes, just thought I’d pick your brain.  We can meet at Cavendish.”  
  
       “Cavendish?  I thought the house was closed up for now?”  
  
       “I’ll open it for the occasion,” Paul chuckled.  
  
       “I’m honored.  I guess.  So, no John then?”  
  
       “No John.”  
  
       Ringo let that sink in.  A-oh.  This didn’t sound good.  Was he going to get dragged in again – _oh worst luck!_ – and get smacked around between them in yet _another_ bloody break up?  “Okay, how about in 45 minutes?”  
  
       “See ya there, mate,” Paul responded.   
  
       Ringo heard the phone disconnect, and reluctantly moved in the direction of his bedroom.  He guessed he’d have to actually put on some presentable clothes today after all.         
  
          Bummer.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and Ringo Discuss the Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question:  
> Ringo is often depicted in fan fics as the 'fix it' guy, or the guy everyone could talk to, and who managed to be kind to others while being able to take a lot of abuse without taking it personally. What is your opinion on this subject? Do you think it is accurate, or has it been perpetuated by fan fics to the point where it has obscured the reality?
> 
> Thanks all, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.

         Ringo entered the hallway at Cavendish, trailing behind Paul.  Yes, that was the very wall he got backed up against with both Paul and Linda screaming at him, on that awful day back in 1970.  Ringo shivered.  Bad juju, those memories.  
  
         Paul settled them at the kitchen table, as he made tea.  Ringo noted all the little details in the room that reflected that this was indeed a happy family home.  The childish drawings attached to the American-sized fridge, the little ceramic animals that were seemingly randomly placed around the room in unlikely places, and in the pantry area two huge dog beds that looked the worst for wear.  Ringo brought his attention back to Paul, as he noted the tea being poured.  
  
         Paul sat down across from him and busied himself with doctoring his tea a little.  
  
         “I’ve meant to ask you, Paul,” Ringo said, “What is going on with you and Linda?  Does she know about John?”  
  
         Paul stirred his tea some more before saying, “Yes, she knows.  She’s known about it for years.”  
  
         “And she’s _okay_ with it?”  Ringo was shocked at the notion.  And he was equally shocked with the information that it had been going on “ _for years_ ”   but said nothing about that.  
  
         Paul winced.  “I don’t know about ‘okay’, Ritchie, but she accepts it.  She understands it.  We make it work somehow.  She knows I could never leave her or the children, and if push came to shove she knows that I know where my ultimate responsibility lies.”  
  
         Ringo nodded quietly, thinking now how hard it must be for John to _not_ be the ‘ultimate responsibility.’  “Still, it must be hard on her, and on John, and on _you_ …” Ringo knew from his own triangle experience with his ex-wife Maureen, when she had her affair with George Harrison, that these internecine battles were the kind of bloodbaths where no one took prisoners.  But Paul didn’t seem inclined to discuss this topic with him further, so Ringo reluctantly dropped the thread.  
  
         After an awkward silence, Paul decided to jump in.  No point in dancing around the issue any longer.  
  
         “I think John’s in trouble,” Paul said, apropos of nothing.  
  
         Ringo’s eyebrows lifted.  Perhaps this wasn’t going to be a “ _I hate John and you need to be on my side in this_ ” discussion after all.  A certain amount of relief accompanied that thought, although of course he wasn’t happy to hear that maybe John was “in trouble.”  
  
         “In trouble _how_?” Ringo asked simply.  
  
         Paul paused for a moment, but then forced himself to continue.  He had come this far, so he really had to go all the way through with it.  Paul had considered everyone he knew, and had concluded that only Ringo could possibly talk him through this mess.  
  
         “I think someone is blackmailing him.”  There.  He’d said it.  Out loud.  For the first time.  Ever.  He had worried about it constantly ever since he’d begun to suspect it.  Two whole days.  
  
         “ _Blackmailing?_ ”  Ringo’s reaction was almost comical.  
  
         “Yes, I think someone is threatening him with exposure in exchange for money.  A lot of money.”  
  
         “That seems a little, well, farfetched…” Ringo was at a loss for words.  “I mean, what would anyone be able to threaten John with?  He was always the first one to expose himself!”  
  
         Paul had expected a little of this.  “Not always,” he said in a low voice.  
  
         “Come again?”  
  
         “He didn’t expose anything about me and him.  Ever.  He actually lied about it – even to the great Jann Wenner.”  
  
         “Oh.  I see.”  
  
         “So, I think someone is threatening to go to the press about John’s sexual interest in…well… _men._ ”  
  
         Ringo let out a big sigh.  “Not _men_ , Paul.  Just _you_.  So you think that someone is threatening to expose your relationship to the press?”  Ringo felt real compassion for Paul at that moment.  
  
         “Not so much about me and John,” Paul said, “because this man – I know who it is – has no first hand knowledge about that, and we could easily deal with it.”  
  
         Ringo looked at Paul with utter confusion.  “Then _what?_ ”  
  
         “I think John had an affair with this man.  He has denied it to me, but I’m not so sure now…”  
  
         Ringo took a big swallow, and considered this surprising news.  
  
         Paul continued.  “I think John must have just wanted a fling for when I was out of town - you know how he is about sex,” Ringo nodded knowingly as Paul continued on, “but when John tried to end it…”  
  
         “…This guy threatened to expose him in exchange for money.”   Ringo finished the thought.  
  
         “Yes.”  
  
         “Ouch.”  Ringo’s one word response was precisely on point.  Paul nodded in silent agreement with it.  “So,” Ringo asked, once he had recovered his equilibrium, “have you asked John about this?”  
  
         “No!  _God no_!  What am I supposed to say?  ‘ _Hey, luv, that man you swore you didn’t sleep with…is he blackmailing you over your affair with him_?’”  
  
         “That’s not a bad start,” Ringo told him wisely.  
  
         “But what if it isn’t true?  John will be furious at me for accusing him!”  
  
         “Well, where do you get the idea there is blackmail involved?”  
  
         “I had a call from John’s accountant.  John is attempting to liquidate assets and transfer the money into this man’s Swiss bank account.”  
  
         Ringo whistled, and then thought about this for a while.  “I think you have to be honest with him, Paul.  I don’t think you have an alternative.”  Ringo stopped abruptly and scrutinized Paul’s face intently.  “How do you feel about it, Paul?  Him having an affair with another man, and lying to you about it?”  
  
         Paul was glad Ringo asked him the question, because Paul had needed to talk about it, and really had no clue how he felt about it.  He struggled internally for a while with his feelings, and then started to speak softly and slowly.  “Right now, I am so worried about John that I can’t be upset about it on my own behalf.  Does that make sense?  I mean, probably, when the danger has passed – _if_ the danger passes – I will find that I have some residual feelings about it, and will have to deal with them then.  But right now, my only concern is _John_.  It is eating him alive, Ritchie.  And it infuriates me no end – some asshole using him that way!  Do you remember when you were at our place the other night, and that man came to the door to ask for a donation?”  
  
         Ringo nodded ‘yes’.  
  
         “That was _him_.  The bastard!  He came to our fucking _door_ and made those insinuating remarks to me!  And the whole time he has been enjoying watching John twisting in the wind.  I fucking hate him, and I feel like I could kill him right now!”  Paul’s voice had grown ever louder and more strident as he gave vent to these angry thoughts – the ones he had swallowed for days.  
  
         Ringo absorbed the information, and struggled to maintain some level of objectivity.  But, truly, he was outraged too at what the weasel had done to John.  John was a loose cannon who often created his own disasters, sure, but he didn’t deserve to be treated this way!  
  
         “I think maybe I should talk to John,” Ringo finally said.  Paul looked up in surprise.  
  
         “ _What_?”  
       
         “I think I should tell John that you are worried sick about him, but unable to ask what is wrong.  I think I should insist that John tell me what is happening, and that he and I can work together to straighten it out – whatever it is.”  
  
         Paul was dumbstruck.  He hadn’t thought of this solution.  Most of his life he had found that _he_ was the one who had to come up with the solutions to such problems, and to also be the one to carry them out.  The eyes he exposed to Ringo were laden with gratitude.  
  
         “ _You’d do that for us_?”  
  
         “Of course, Paul.  I love you like brothers, both of you.  I just think it will be easier for John to unburden himself to someone other than you,” Ringo added gently, “given the circumstances.”  
  
         Paul winced, but didn’t disagree.  John was between a rock and a hard place, and he – Paul – was the involuntary ‘hard place’.  It didn’t matter if John had brought this whole mess down on himself with his impulsive (and probably even drunken) behavior.  What mattered was seeing him safely out of this, and as soon as possible.  There was time enough for recriminations later.  


 

*****

  
  
       John had been having difficulties getting ahold of his accountant.  It was Monday morning, and the next afternoon he would have to see Nigel at _San Pascale’s_.  John needed to reassure himself that the money had made it into Nigel’s account before the meeting, but the damn accountant wasn’t returning his phone calls!  
  
         When the phone rang at the conclusion of these thoughts, John was convinced it was the accountant, so he greedily answered the phone and said, “Yes?”  
  
         “John!  It’s Ritchie.”  
  
         John’s spirits dropped.  “Oh, hi.”  
  
         “Don’t sound so excited.”  
  
         “Sorry.  I was expecting someone else.”  
  
         “Well, you got me instead.  Listen, I really need to talk to you today – as soon as possible.”  Ringo’s voice was businesslike, and brooked no denial.  
  
         “Of course, Rich, come on over.  Any time.”  
  
         “Is Paul there?”  Ringo asked.  
  
         “No, he left for Sussex a few hours ago,” John responded.  
  
         “So, give me a half hour.  I’ll be ‘round.”  
  
         John was a little put out by this distraction, because he really needed to come up with something – anything – to hold Nigel at bay the next day, and short of getting assurances from his accountant, he didn’t know what else he could possibly say to satisfy Nigel.  But Ringo was one of his oldest, dearest friends, and if he needed to talk, then John needed to listen.  
  
         When Ringo got there, John had to force himself to be pleasant and patient.  In the back of his mind all he could think about was _Nigel.Nigel.Nigel_.  Soon they were settled in the sitting room, with the ever-present cups of tea, and John was waiting politely for Ringo to begin.  
  
         “This is a bit awkward,” Ringo began. “I didn’t want Paul to be here, because I thought it would be hard to talk about this with him here.”  Ringo looked up at John with a fairly convincing guilty expression on his face.  
  
         “Hard?  Why?”  John was concerned.  
  
         “I guess I’ll have to start from the beginning.”  Ringo paused dramatically.  
  
         “Ritchie, what is it?  You’ve got me really worried now.”  
  
         “Yesterday, Paul asked to meet with me, and he told me he is very worried about you, and he thinks you’re having an affair – or maybe you’ve had one - and so he doesn’t feel comfortable asking you about it.  I’ve taken it upon myself to intervene.”  
  
         John’s heart was thumping, and he hoped his guilty expression didn’t show.  He gained some modicum of control over his emotions, and faced Ringo directly.  “Well, first, why on earth would he tell _you_ that?  Why is it any of _your_ business?”  
  
         “Who else is he gonna confide in?”  Ringo asked, an innocent expression on his face.  
  
         John saw the clear logic in that.  Paul could hardly go crying to Linda that his lover was having an affair!  “But what did he think you could _do_ about it?  Why can’t he talk to _me_ about it?”  John asked, mystified and shaken.  _Oh, what a tangled web he’d woven_.  
  
         “That’s just the point.  I don’t think he believes _anyone_ can do anything about it.  He just needed someone to talk to.  But when I gave it more thought, I decided that I really should discuss it with you.  I mean, I know you love Paul.  So, even if you have had an affair, you wouldn’t want Paul to be hurt by it, right?  You might care enough about that to even lie to him?”  
  
         John digested the information.  
  
         “I never _want_ to hurt him, but it seems I have an uncanny knack for it,” John responded dejectedly.  
  
         “How so?” Ringo asked gently.  
  
         “Ritchie, if I tell you, you can never tell Paul.  It would destroy him.  It would destroy our whole life together.”  
  
         “Of course I won’t tell Paul if you don’t want me to.  But I think you underestimate him, Johnny.”  Ringo’s voice was soft.  “I think he knows you a whole lot better than you give him credit for, and I believe you can trust him to deal with the truth maturely.  His only concern is for you.  He thinks that someone, er, maybe this charity trust fellow, might be causing you some trouble.”  
  
         _Charity trust fellow!  Cor blimey, was Paul fuckin’ psychic?_ John was struck dumb, and his astonished face told Ringo all he needed to know.  
  
         Ringo waited patiently for the dam to burst.  Finally, the crack showed itself.  
  
         “It was over a year ago, Ritchie.  Paul had gone off to Sussex leaving me alone for the first time, and I did a brain fart.  No, it was _more_ than a brain fart.   It was like a whole body and soul fart!”  
  
         Ringo chuckled in spite of the context.  
  
         “I got polluted drunk one night – I was angry with Paul – and met this…person…in a club.  I was only going to flirt a bit, a kind of private revenge thing you know…”  
  
         Ringo made every effort not to shake his head in weary frustration.  _John, John, John…_  
  
         “It got out of hand.  I invited him back to the townhouse for a drink, but I really didn’t intend to have sex with him.”  
  
         Ringo barely moved, and was silent.  _John, John, John…In Paul’s own home.  In his own bed.  This was going to be a real painful shock to Paul if he found out._  
  
         John burst into hurried and frantic explanations.  “I don’t even remember it!  It was that pathetic!  I woke up the next morning and he was there!  I was disgusted – horrified! - and I threw him out of the house.”  
  
         Ringo waited.  
  
         “But he picked up the phone on the way out – Paul had called – and told Paul that he and I had slept together.”  John went silent and stared at his hands for a long time.  
  
         “And you lied to Paul about it when he asked you.”  
  
         “Yeah, I denied it.  Said he was just a hanger-on who was pissed off at me.”  
  
         “Well, it’s true he was pissed off at you, or you wouldn’t be worrying yourself sick.  Or so Paul says.  What’s he done to you?”  
  
         John groaned, and let his face fall into his two hands.  “Oh, Ritchie…you have no idea…”  
  
         “You think not?  How’s this guess:  Is he threatening to expose you if you don’t pay him money?”  
  
         John’s face slowly came out from behind his hands.  He was looking at Ringo with a strange expression on his face.  
  
         “I paid him before, and I thought I’d gotten rid of him.  Months ago.”  
  
         “But now he’s back for more.”  
  
         John nodded slightly in response.  
  
         “So what does he want now?  And when does he want it?”  
  
         “That’s the hard bit.  Before it was only a relatively small amount of money.  But _this_ time… I don’t even have that much cash lying around! I had to ask the accountant to sell something and transfer the money into this account number he gave me, but the accountant hasn’t called me back.  I can’t confirm whether it happened, and I have to meet Ni…this person…tomorrow afternoon.”  
  
         “Tomorrow!”  Ringo was shocked at the confirmation of Paul’s worst fears.  
  
         John nodded, his eyes filling with tears, and his head shaking, slightly, as if his neck was no longer strong enough to hold it up.  
  
         “How much money is it, John?” Ringo asked gently.  
  
         “Two million pounds.”  
  
         Ringo sat back in his chair, his hands flat on his thighs.  Paul had not told him the amount.  Ringo’s mouth was slightly open, and he realized his mouth was now gaping but he couldn’t help himself.  Finally, he was able to whisper, “ _John_!”  
  
         “I know.  It floored me too,” John said miserably.  
  
         Ringo’s brain was racing.  “John, is this secret worth _two million pounds_?  And it’ll be more than that, you know!  He’ll have you over a barrel if you give him that money, because he knows it will look bad that you paid him that much - it’s way too much for a person to pay unless he was guilty.   The tabloids would have a field day in that case.  But if you don’t pay him now, and he goes to the tabloids, it’s your word against his!  Who is going to believe him?”  
  
         “Paul will.  Because he will find out I lied.  He won’t ever forgive me.”  
  
         Ringo signed with exasperation.  “That’s funny talk, that is.  Paul isn’t going to go all skirty over a drunken one-night’s stand.  He isn’t going to go all skirty over your stupid lie either!   In fact, he already believes you had the affair, and you’re lying about it.  It’s worse than that – he believes you might have had a _full on_ affair, and that it might still be going on!  If he hasn’t pitched a fit over that, he certainly isn’t going to pitch a fit over this rather pathetic little truth.”  
  
         John groaned, and shook his head.  He couldn’t take the risk.  And he was devastated that Paul already distrusted him – so much so that he felt driven to go to Ringo for emotional support.  And even if Ringo was right that Paul wasn’t upset about the affair and the lie…the truth was that neither Paul nor Ringo knew the _whole_ story.  
  
         John was staring at his hands again when he said in a very low voice, “There’s more.  More I haven’t told you yet.”  
  
         Ringo waited, an encouraging expression on his face.  
  
         “It’s much worse.”  
  
         Ringo thought he could actually hear his heart beating in the still room.  Or maybe it was John’s heart he heard?  But still he waited.  
  
         “This…person.  He needs the money because…he has AIDS.”  
  
         The acronym hung in the cold air above them like a sulfur cloud, stinking to high heaven.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally comes clean, and Paul deals.

         The word “AIDS” was still hanging in the air, as Ringo felt the ground falling out from under his feet.  “ _John_!”  His cry sounded as though it had been forced at lightening speed through a shredding machine.  
  
         John rushed to explain.  “I don’t have it – I’ve tested!  I wasn’t infected!  But for a few days I thought I had.  Paul – and Linda!  I put them both at risk - a _terrible_ risk.  If Nigel tells Paul or the tabloids, _this_ is what Paul would never forgive.  I _have_ to pay Nigel off.  I haven’t got a choice!”  
  
         Ringo appeared to be frozen.  For a few moments he had forgotten how to breathe.  He could think of no bromides to throw in John’s direction.  Paul revered his wife, and he worshipped the life he had with her and their children.  Ringo found himself in bitter agreement with John.  This was a secret that he very much doubted Paul could ever forgive.  How could John have been so stupid?  
  
         The two men sat there, quietly, in the stony silence.  The clock was ticking loudly.  John had correctly read Ringo’s reaction:  he was clearly shocked and disgusted by what John had done. John felt deeply ashamed, and now, sensing his friend’s judging silence, John’s worst fears were being confirmed.  But he had to persevere.  He had no alternative.  
  
         “Ringo – you can’t tell him.  You _promised_.”  This was spoken as one would a prayer.  
  
         Ringo slowly focused on John’s anguished face.  “It isn’t for _me_ to tell, John.  But I will never respect you again if _you_ don’t tell him!  He needs to get tested, and so does Linda.”  
  
         “But I don’t have it, so how could they?”  
  
         “It’s a sneaky disease.  They’re only just learning about it!  You cannot wait one moment more before telling him.  He has to do what he can to protect himself and his wife.”  
  
         John hadn’t thought of that.  It was his magical thinking at work again.  Honestly, sometimes he wondered why he had a brain at all, if it was going to dysfunction so drastically all the fucking time.  
  
         Ringo was speaking again.  “ _This_ is the choice you don’t have, John.  If you really do love Paul, you have to tell him.”  
  
         John felt hollow inside, as Ringo’s words fell on him like an indictment.  
  
         “I know you’re right, Ritchie.  But…I’m afraid when it comes to it I won’t be able to do it.  Will you be there too, to keep me honest?”  John looked lost and afraid, and of course Ringo agreed immediately to be there for him.  
  
         “I guess I should call Paul then,” John said sadly.  
  
         Ringo jumped up decisively.  “No - I’ll call him, and tell him to drive back up to London.  You have to tell him to his face, John.  It isn’t the kind of information you can relay over the phone.”  
  
         John just nodded weakly in response, and Ringo went to call Paul.  


 

*****

  
     
         “He’s in a hell of a mess, Paul,” Ringo said softly into the receiver.  
  
         “I _knew_ it!  I’ll fuckin’ _strangle_ that asshole Nigel!  He’ll regret the day he ever met John!”  
  
         “He has something else to tell you, Paul.  But it needs to be in person.  How soon can you get here?”  
  
         Paul went still.  There was something in Ringo’s voice.  Something raw and _bad_.  “I can be there in two hours.  I’ll leave as soon as possible.”  


 

*****

  
  
       First, he had to explain to Linda why he was rushing off back to London in mid-afternoon only hours after he had arrived home.  She was in the garden, where he had left her when the phone rang, wrapped up in a blanket in the cool September air, sitting in a lounge chair and lazily throwing a disgusting old ball for one of the dogs. One of the mutts.  The retrievers couldn’t be bothered to fetch, but the mutts were great at it.  
  
         Paul sank into the chair next to her and she looked up at him with a beautiful smile on her face.  “Hey babe!  Who was that on the phone?”  
  
         “Ritchie.”  Paul said, a serious expression on his face.  Linda noticed this and stirred.  
  
         “Is something wrong?”  
  
         “John’s got himself in a bloody great mess, and Ritchie says I need to get back to London to help him out of it.”  
  
         “What is it?”  
  
         Paul had no intention of lying to Linda.  “Some one is extorting him.”  
  
         “Extortion!” Linda looked shocked.  And then:  “Oh _no,_ Paul!  It isn’t going to come out about him and you – in the tabloids?  The children!  We have to warn them!”  
  
         Paul stared at her face in surprise.  He had no idea that Linda was worried about that.  In fact, why hadn’t he realized that _of course_ she would be worried about that?  And come to think of it, why hadn’t _he_ been worrying about that?  He’d been so wrapped up in John’s problems, that he hadn’t ever spared a thought for his own situation!  
  
         “It isn’t about us, Lin, at least I don’t think so.  John had a fling with some man, and now the man is threatening to expose him.”  
  
         Linda was shocked.  She was staring at Paul with a combination of empathy and aggravation.  “He _cheated_ on you with some _guy_?”  Linda’s voice was filled with outrage.  _How dare John cheat on Paul!_ She thought. _After everything Paul had done for him, all the sacrifices!_ “What a selfish, puerile, _idiotic_ thing to do!” she exclaimed out loud.  
  
         Paul was a little confused by Linda’s anger.  It wasn’t as if John had cheated on _her_ after all.  “It was only just a fling – at least that is what Ringo just told me.  Just this one drunken night.  He’s been worried sick about it for months.”  
  
         “He deserves it,” Linda grumbled.  She was still fuming over John’s disloyalty to Paul.  She was having a hard time seeing past her anger.  But then she saw Paul’s worried eyes, and she pulled herself together.  
  
         “So what are we going to do, then?” She asked Paul, grabbing his hand and squeezing it.  
  
         Paul heard the word “we”, and he squeezed her hand back, and leaned in to give her a loving kiss.  “We’re going to figure a way out of the mess, of course,” he said soothingly, “and put it all behind us.”  
  
         “I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive John,” Linda grumbled.  
  
         Paul studied Linda’s face for a long, objective moment.  “I have put you and John both through the wringer, Lin.  Whatever John did, it was my doing too.  I should never have put you both in this impossible situation.”  
  
         Linda caressed Paul’s beloved face with a graceful hand.  “Go get John out of this mess, and then come back home to us.  Let’s try to keep the drama down to the minimum after that, shall we?”  
  
         Paul laughed in spite of himself.  Soon, he was up and out the door.  
  
         Linda heard the car’s engine racing, and soon the afternoon was silent again, save for the busy sounds of birds and insects of course.  She looked down at the dog, who was still patiently waiting for another throw.  She threw the ball.  
  
         It wasn’t until later, while she was clearing up the dinner dishes and the children had rushed off in their various directions, that it suddenly struck Linda like a blow to her heart.  
  
         _A drunken one night stand with a man capable of blackmail?_ This was more than a betrayal of Paul’s trust.  This was a huge gamble to take with all of their lives, given the virulence of the AIDS epidemic.  She hoped John had used a condom, but somehow John didn’t seem like the condom-wearing type.  But oh my god!  She desperately hoped that this was _not_ why Paul had to rush back to London.  


 

*****

  
       The drive back up to London took on a nightmarish quality for Paul, especially when he hit the outskirts of the city at prime rush hour.  It took him almost three hours to get back to Maida Vale, and by then he was a nervous wreck.  His imagination had been torturing him all the way, and when he was this nervous and upset he didn’t like to eat, so he was literally shaking with both fear and hunger as he rushed up the stairs and into the sitting room.  
  
         Ringo had had quite the time trying to comfort John.  John had, at one point, broke down in heart-wrenching sobs, and other than embracing him and making soothing sounds there was little Ringo could do to help John.   The worst of it seemed to be John’s unshakable belief that Paul was going to hate him and never forgive him.  John was utterly convinced his life with Paul was about to end.  
  
         When Paul rushed in to the sitting room, he saw Ringo with his arms around John, and John looking at him with a mixture of fear and shame.  Paul’s heart melted a little.  Whatever John had done, there was no need for such an extreme reaction.  He strode across the room and knelt before John.  He didn’t say any thing at first, but his face was an open question mark.  
  
         Ringo cleared his throat, got up, and went to pour them all some of the left over scotch from the previous visit.  Paul got up, found a stool, and pushed it closer so that he was sitting directly in front of John, with one hand on each of John’s thighs.  
  
         “Johnny?  What’s going on?”  Paul’s voice was low and calm.  
  
         John looked to Ringo for support.  
  
         As he handed each man their glass of whiskey, Ringo said, “John has confirmed your suspicions about the affair and the blackmailing, Paul.”  
  
         Paul turned to John with compassion etched on his face.  “John, your accountant called me and told me about the two million pounds.”  John looked at Paul in surprise.  He should have known that they wouldn’t keep Paul in the dark over something like that.  “We did a little research and discovered there is no such charity, and so it didn’t take much to put two and two together…”  
  
         John groaned and said under his voice, “The whole thing is like a fuckin’ pantomime…and I’m the clown.”  
  
         Paul chuckled and ruffled John’s hair in an insouciant gesture.  “It’s not the end of the world, you know.  So you fucked the guy.  Ringo told me it was a one time thing.”  
  
         “I swear I don’t remember it.  I was stone cold drunk.”  
  
         “Well then, how do you know it happened?”  
  
         “Nigel told me about it.”  
  
         A thought was forming in Paul’s head.  “You mean, Nigel the blackmailer said you had sex and you believed him?  Or, do you know you had sex with him, and it is all just a little bit hazy.  Which one is it John?”  
  
         John was amazed that Paul was talking about it as if it were no big deal.  This confused him so much that he found himself just going along with it as if this were a perfectly normal way for two lovers to behave.  “I do have a vague recollection of him above me - on top of me…his face looking down at me…”  
  
         RIngo squirmed in his chair, and picked up a magazine.  This was getting to be a little too much information for him.  
  
         “So this man fucked you John?  While you were drunk and out of it?”  
  
         “What he said was, that he rode me – you know, me inside him, but him doing all the work – from the top.”  
  
         Neither man noticed the humming sound coming from Ringo’s chair as he tried to distract himself.  
  
         Paul’s face was looking skeptical.  “John, excuse me, but that just doesn’t sound plausible.”  
  
         “Why not?”  John asked.  
  
         “Because, well, if you were drunk and out cold, how on earth did you maintain a hard on strong enough to penetrate him?  And how could he possibly manage it all by himself without your cooperation, especially with your sheath?  As you know, it isn’t that easy to make entry, even with all your wits about you.”  
  
         Ringo jumped up and quickly excused himself.  He found that he had a sudden desperate need to be somewhere else.  Anywhere else.  
  
         “I guess I thought I was still cooperating on some level.”  
  
         “ _Unconscious sex_?  Seems pretty unlikely to me.  Not impossible I guess, but highly unlikely.  When you add to it the fact that the guy is a blackmailer, the story’s credibility goes down from there.”  
  
         John met Paul’s eyes with hopefulness.   “Do you think he made it up?”  
  
         “Well, it seems like he made _that_ part of it up, anyway.  It just doesn’t sound physically probable to me.  You forget – we’ve often messed around when we were drunk, but never could we actually _fuck_ …”  
  
         _Duh!_ John thought.  _Why didn’t I think of that?_ John didn’t speak these words, but apparently they showed on his face, because Paul answered the question for him.  
  
         “You were so busy feeling guilty and hiding the truth from me, that you never really thought about whether the story was even likely.”  
  
         “But he was there, Paul, in our bed, and we were naked…”  
  
         Paul’s brain froze.  _Wait_.  Paul's tone changed form warm and sympathetic to cold and dead in an instant.  “Did you say _our_ bed?”  
  
         John began to panic as he saw the anger in Paul’s face.  “I was drunk Paul – I wasn’t thinking clearly…”  
  
         “You weren’t thinking _at all_ , apparently!” Paul snapped.  
  
         “Well, where did you _think_ we slept if not in our bed?”  John had a way of turning guilt on its head.  
  
          “I don’t know.  I guess I never thought you would never take someone else to _our_ bed.”  Paul’s face now looked a bit downtrodden, the confidence of just a few seconds ago wiped away.   John, meanwhile, was thinking guiltily of Marnie and the other women he had brought there.  
  
         “Paul, I was …”  
  
         “Drunk.  Yeah.  You said that."  He paused for a long moment to contemplate this unhappy news.  But then, Paul the fixer reoccupied Paul's brain.  "Well, it’s spilt milk.  Nothing left to do but to clean it up.”  Paul heaved a businesslike sigh, and returned to the main mission, which was to deal with Nigel.  But much of the warmth and empathy Paul had started with had leached out of him.  John could feel its absence, and  
the fear began rumbling again in the pit of his stomach.  
  
         Ringo had heard Paul’s angry tone, so he rushed back to the sitting room to see if he could be a calming influence.  He saw that Paul had pulled a bit away from John, and was no longer touching him.  But he didn’t appear to be angry, and was instead mulling options.  
  
         “Well, at least we’ll put a stop to it before he succeeds.  Once they’ve succeeded, it emboldens them.”  Paul was thinking out loud, but his words caused John to meet Ringo’s eyes.  There was a pleading look in his eyes.  
  
         “Ah – Paul,” Ringo said, “this isn’t the first time.  There was another time.”  
  
         Paul looked up in shock, and saw the guilt written all over John’s face.  “When?  When did this happen?”  
  
         “You were at work.  It was months ago.  You know – that day you met about the _Sgt Pepper_ launch.”  
  
         Paul was still.  “How much?”  
  
         John sighed.  “Seventy-five thousand pounds.”  
  
         Paul nodded, swallowing the information.   “And how does he make contact with you?”  
  
         “We meet at _San Pascale’s_ Restaurant, in Knightsbridge.  
  
         “I don’t know the place,” Paul mumbled, lost for words and unsure of his footing.    “But what exactly did he threaten to do if you didn’t pay him?”  
  
         “He’s a bit more clever than that.  He always talks as if I am making a donation to this charity.  But the things he says – he mentioned you, a lot, Paul.  He was always threatening to tell you about that night, but in this roundabout way.  And then he also mentioned how it would be a shame if ‘the press’ found out.’”  
  
         “So, either you pay him, or he will expose you to me and the world.”  Paul repeated it in plainer English.  
  
         John nodded and said, “That’s the gist of it, yeah.”  
  
         Paul looked brighter all of a sudden.  “Well.  _I_ already know, so _that_ isn’t going to work for him.  And it is still his word against yours with respect to what happened that night.”  
  
         “But there’s enough truth to what happened that night to cause us all a lot of grief and embarrassment …”  
  
         “True, especially right on the heels of the album’s release…” Paul considered.  
  
         John groaned.  He hadn’t thought of that!  He was such a monumental fuckup!  
  
         “John, don’t you have something else important to tell Paul?”  Ringo interjected.  
  
         John scowled at Ringo.  He turned and saw Paul waiting with weary, resigned eyes.  “There’s nothing to worry about, Paul, because I tested and I’m clear, but Nigel told me has AIDS, and that’s why he needs all that money.”  
  
         Paul was absolutely still for a good 30 seconds before the penny dropped.  “The call from your doctor the other night…”  
  
         “Yeah, that was what I was worrying about.”  
  
         _That makes more sense_ , Paul thought to himself.  He had thought that John had overreacted quite a bit for a potential ‘mono’ infection.  But Paul wasn’t all that well versed in the latest news about AIDS.  Paul’s brain was problem solving again.  “Didn’t we have to get tested several times before they cleared us a few years ago?” he asked.  
  
         “Yeah, but since it has been 15 months since I was exposed, and they know a little bit more about the disease, they cleared me.  I’m supposed to retest in 6 months, but only just to be overly cautious.”  
  
         Paul sat on the stool; he seemed to be rooted to it.  His brain was working, but his mouth wasn’t for a good long moment.  “So I should get tested, too, I suppose,” he said in a low angry voice.  
  
         “And Linda,” John said in an even lower voice, looking at the floor while he said it.  
  
         _Linda!  Crap!  The fun just keeps on coming!_ Paul was stunned into a shocked silence, and Ringo jumped in.  
  
         “It would only be in an excess of caution, Paul.  They’ve come a long way and the doctor seems very sure of the result.”  
  
         Paul still didn’t talk.  _Linda_.  His eyes flew up in an accusatory way and met John’s fearful and guilty eyes.  But Paul didn’t say anything.  His mouth had turned into a thin dark line, but he nodded as if to acknowledge what Ringo said.  
  
         Paul found it hard to feel bad for John.  He was so shaken and irritated by the whole thoughtless stupidity of it all.  He could get over the cheating with a man he supposed, and he figured he could even get over John bringing that mongrel into their home and their bed, but forgiving these two things alone might take some time.  Whereas the risky conduct leading to a potential exposure to AIDS?  In that moment, Paul was not sure he could ever get over that.  
  
         But first things first.  One has to solve one problem before he could move on to the next one.  
  
         “So when are you meeting him again?”  Paul asked John in a strictly businesslike, bordering on cold, tone of voice.  
  
         “Tomorrow afternoon, at 2 p.m.,” John said in a weak shaky voice.  “But I’m supposed to have transferred the two million pounds to his account by then, and I have no idea what I can do about it.  He will probably demand more money as a penalty or something.  What’ll I do?”  
  
         Paul was thinking furiously.  There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments.  And then:  “You’re not going to be there tomorrow, John, so you don’t have to worry about it.”  
  
         “He might go public if we ignore him!” John cried.  
  
         “Oh, we won’t ignore him,” Paul assured him with a mean smile.  “Your lawyer and I will go instead.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul confronts Nigel

         Maybe in twenty years Paul would be able to look back on the _Nigel Affair_ with a sense of proportion, if not ever with equanimity.  But while he was living through it, it was awful.  So many moving parts, and all of those parts – if not properly managed - were capable of flying off and causing irremediable damage to every person and thing that he loved.  
  
         John was a quivering mass of insecurity and remorsefulness.  Paul hadn’t seen the like of it since the whole “ _Beatles are bigger than Christ_ ” controversy of 1966.  He remembered John in a chair, tears running down his cheeks, surrounded by angry people.  Brian Epstein and the other suits had been beside themselves with aggravation.  George had been furious with John in private, although he did support him publicly, and Ringo had just looked confused and betrayed.  Although Ringo, too, supported John publicly, privately he hadn’t been able to understand why John kept putting them all through those unnecessary public relations nightmares.  Paul, however, had been a staunchly supportive advocate for John all the way through it; he was John’s only true unapologetic supporter, both in public and in private.  He hadn’t been able to bear seeing John that broken over something so stupid.  _Who cared what a pop star thought about religion?  Everyone needed to lighten up!  Especially when you considered some of the crackpot things those ‘born again’ types in the American south believed!  And everyone was entitled to his opinion!_  
  
         So here they were again, John and Paul, in the same conundrum.  And Paul’s instincts in 1987 were the same as they had been in 1966.  John had to be protected from his own idiocy, and Paul was the only one in John’s life truly capable of understanding why John did these things, and not holding them against him.  
  
         That is why he had called John Eastman, and gotten a referral to a “red meat” type solicitor in London, and why he had called that man late at night at home to seek emergency advice.  Now, hours before the meeting with Nigel, Paul was in the lawyer’s office, discussing strategy.  
  
         “Under defamation law,” the attorney said, “the burden is on the declarant to prove the truth of what he said.  It is considered ‘per se’ defamation to accuse someone of being homosexual, or having a homosexual relationship.  This means, that if in fact he does say this about John to the press or to any third party, and he later cannot prove that it is more likely to be true than not, he _will_ be liable, and he _will_ have to pay damages.”  
  
         “But in our case the problem is that John was drunk, and he doesn’t remember.  What is he going to say?  _Yes, I got drunk with him, and took him home, and woke up naked in bed with him, but I don’t remember if we actually had sex?_ Isn’t truth an absolute defense to a defamation claim?  And even if John can cast doubt on the sex act itself, the problem is that the information that _is_ true is damaging enough.”  
  
         The lawyer studied Paul.  He had never met the man before, although he had often worked to further Paul’s interests at the behest of Paul’s brother-in-law and financial partner, John Eastman.  Eastman had told him that Paul was actually a brilliant businessman, and a very quick study on issues related to law and finance.  This was the lawyer’s first glimpse of his own that Paul was one sharp cookie.  
  
         “Yes,” the lawyer said in what he hoped was an objective, non-judgmental voice, “It is not a good idea to sue for defamation if the statement is true, as Oscar Wilde once famously proved.”  
  
         “What about injunctions?  Can we stop the press from publishing, even if this man tells someone?”  
  
         “Well, only if we are ultimately prepared to sue for defamation.  There are very few prior restraints against publication, you see.  The only way we can stop the press from publishing is to tell them it is untrue, and that they will be sued for damages if they publish it.”  
  
         Paul was silent.  What a fucking mess.  But crying over spilt milk was something that Paul rarely engaged in.  
  
         “Perhaps they will be worried about publishing if we threaten them, and we won’t have to go so far as to sue,” Paul mused.  
  
         “Yes, others have tried that:  the heavy-handed threat even when the matter is true.  The problem with that is what happens in Britain will not determine what will happen outside of the country.  In America, for example, there is _no_ prior restraint against publication at all, and one can only sue for defamation after the fact.  So this…individual…could easily go to America, or other places in Europe, and talk to the press and your – _er_ – _his_ only recourse would be to sue.”  
  
         An uncomfortable silence enveloped them for a moment.  Then the lawyer cleared his throat.  “This does bring up a delicate point,” he said.  
  
         Paul looked up in an inquiring attitude.  “Yes?”  
  
         “Well, this _is_ awkward, but I was wondering why Mr. Lennon isn’t here himself.  It’s highly unusual to provide such personal legal advice through a third party.”  
  
         “I have his power of attorney,” Paul pointed out, having already provided a copy of it to the lawyer.  
  
         “Yes, of course, and without that power of attorney I would not have discussed this with you at all, because as far as I can tell this… _person_ …is not blackmailing you.  Is he?”  
  
         “Not directly, no,” Paul admitted.  
  
         “ _Indirectly_ then?”  The lawyer probed.  
  
         A look of irritation crossed Paul’s face.  
  
         The lawyer sighed.  “I need to know the whole truth, if I am to advise you both properly,” he said calmly.  
  
         “John isn’t here because he is a nervous wreck,” Paul said, answering the earlier question instead of the later one.  “He would fall apart if he had to listen to all of this. It would be counter-productive.”  
  
         “And you are doing this for him out of friendship?”  
  
         Paul was irritated again.  “Yes.  Is that so hard to believe?  John isn’t good at things like this – law and business – so I always cover for him.  He covers for me when I’m bad at something.  It is what we have always done for each other.”  
  
         The lawyer nodded.  He tried again.  “Do you and Mr. Lennon have…well, what exactly is the _nature_ of your relationship with each other?  I need to know if there is more here.  It isn’t a prurient interest, I assure you.  But _if t_ here is something between the two of you that could be used as further evidence of the truth of this person’s allegation…”  
  
         The penny dropped.   “Oh, I see what you’re saying,” Paul said softly.  He was quiet for a moment.  “John and I live together half the time.”  
  
         The lawyer let this sink in.  “And the other half?”  
  
         “I live with my wife and kids of course.  My wife knows about it.”  
  
         _Of course?_ The lawyer’s lips twitched as he tried not to smile.  _Doesn’t everyone?_ He cleared his throat again, and now that he knew that it was true that his client – well, _clients_ – had this propensity, he knew that no matter what happened he would strongly advise them _not_ to threaten anyone with a defamation suit.  In that direction laid sure destruction.  
  
         “So it seems there is a lot at stake here, what with Mr. Lennon’s reputation, your reputation, the well being of your marriage to your wife, and the well being of your children.”  
  
         “And don’t forget about _John’s_ children, and his Aunt Mimi, and my brother…” Paul muttered under his breath.  “And we’re about to release an album, and this threat couldn’t have come at a worse moment.  It would completely overshadow our work.”  Paul stopped for a moment and took a big breath before continuing. “And…there’s more.  It gets worse.”  
  
         “Oh?”  
  
         “This is the really explosive bit.”  Paul said, almost afraid to say the words out loud, as if it were a curse or something.  
  
         The lawyer was wondering what could be more explosive than Lennon  & McCartney being lovers.  But he didn’t have long to wait to find out what it was.  
  
         “Mr. Lawson-Fielding has told John that he has been diagnosed with AIDS.”  Paul let the disclosure sit in the still morning air.   Then he rushed in to explain more.  “John has been tested, and the test was negative, and I believe – frankly I believe that the man is lying about actually having sex with John, so I don’t think John is in danger of contracting the disease.”  
  
         The lawyer was still digesting the word ‘ _AIDS_ ’.  “Well,” he finally reacted, “I have to say, that is very explosive indeed.  But what makes you believe that they didn’t actually have sex?  Lovers lie to each other about such things, I have noted.”  The lawyer was trying to be gentle, but he also had to be realistic.  
  
         Paul laughed.  “Oh, you’re right!  John lied to me about it.  For months.  Big surprise.  But no, that’s not why I think it didn’t happen.  It’s the _mechanics_ of it all…to put it as nicely as possible, it doesn’t seem possible to me that a man that drunk would be able to _perform_ properly…”  
  
         _Ahhhh…_ the lawyer’s face seemed to say.  “I _see_ ,” is what he actually said.  Another throat clearance.  “So, from what I can tell this is a very difficult situation we’re in.”  
  
         Paul thought to himself, _how nice that he says_ ‘ _we’_.  He then decided to bring the discussion back to solutions, rather than problems.  “The man has told John that he needs two million pounds to pay for his living expenses and specialized medical care for two years.  In other words, he wants to use that one-night stand to finance his treatment.  It might be the best solution if we work with him on some kind of trust fund…”  
  
         The lawyer picked up the idea, feeling relieved to be back on solid legal ground again.  “Pay him off, yes, that seems to be the only way.  But it has to be done in a way that will ensure that he will go away and stay away, and remain silent.  There also has to be a serious downside for him not to come back for more, or to release the information anyway.”  
  
         “Any suggestions?” Paul asked.  
  
         “Normally in such situations, you reward the party for silence over time.  In other words, you provide so much upfront, and for every year or so of silence, you release more funds.  Then, of course, there is the default clause.”  
  
         “Default clause?”  
  
         “Yes, if the beneficiary of the trust violates the terms of the trust – that is, he fails to remain silent – then he forfeits the balance of the trust, and is liable for damages to Mr. Lennon for breach of the contract.  At that point, the truth would be out anyway, so suing him to get the money back would be the only viable penalty.  And, of course, when he dies, then the trust _res_ will revert back to Mr. Lennon, and not to this man’s heirs.”  
  
         Paul listened with intense concentration, and finally nodded his head.  “Let’s do that, then.  I want you to come with me this afternoon to meet this man, as I mentioned earlier.  We can find out if he is open to this sort of arrangement.”  
       
         “You may have to sweeten the pot.  Be prepared to offer more than two million pounds over time, if he balks.  Remember – the best way to keep him silent is to _reward_ him for his silence.”  


 

*****

  
  
       Nigel got to the restaurant early.  He liked to be in place when John arrived.  It created the illusion that the restaurant was his territory, and John was the interloper.  As he sat in the familiar booth, he smoked a cigarette.  Ever since he’d found out about the AIDS, he had started chain-smoking in earnest.  He was going to die anyway, no matter what, so why not smoke his brains out?  The AIDS would kill him long before cancer could.  His back was to the wall in the booth, so that he could face the opposition as he came in to the restaurant.  This, too, would put John in a weaker position psychologically.  
         Two million pounds.  It was moments away from being in his clutches.  And who knew?  Maybe they’d find a cure for this disease, and he could actually _enjoy_ the money.  And when he ran out, there was always the well to go back to…  
  
         It was now about fifteen minutes after two o’clock and Nigel began to fidget.  Was John bailing on him?  Someone was coming in the door…no.  It was two men.  Not John.  He asked himself how long he’d wait before he’d leave, and he knew that he would have to turn up on John’s doorstep again when Paul was home in order to press his point home…  
  
         “Excuse me?  Mr. Lawson-Fielding?” A very erudite voice inquired.  
  
         Nigel looked up and saw a man in an immaculate suit, white shirt and gleaming dark blue tie, holding a briefcase and an umbrella.  “Yes?” Nigel asked.  
  
         “I see you’re surprised to see me.  My name is David Longborne, and I am Mr. Lennon’s solicitor.  And this is my other client, Mr. McCartney.”  He handed Nigel his card.  
  
         Nigel’s heart leapt up into his throat, and as the lawyer slipped in to the booth seat across from him, he noticed Paul McCartney for the first time, as he slid in next to the lawyer.  Now they were both facing him, looking confident and dangerous.  So John had told Paul the truth!  This was a turn of events he had not expected.  
  
         “So we meet again,” Paul said to him in a silky voice.  “You came to call on John a few weeks ago and I answered the door.  You led me to believe you were collecting funds for a charity trust, if you recall.”  
  
         Nigel’s throat was completely dry, and he nodded dumbly.  
  
         “ _Art is Life_?  Does that ring a bell?”  
  
         Nigel felt like a snake held in thrall by a charmer.   But then he finally found his voice.  “I see you come armed with a lawyer, _Paul_.  I should have guessed.”  
  
         Paul said laconically, “He’s only here to keep me from killing you.”  
  
         The lawyer cleared his throat.  “I understand that you have asked John for some funds to assist with your, _ahem,_ medical condition, is this correct?”  
  
           Nigel nodded.  “He made me sick, so it is only fair that he should help me with it.”  
  
         Paul felt his blood pressure going up and he was about to explode, but before he could respond, his lawyer tapped his arm.  
  
         “Interesting that you should make that claim,” the lawyer said, “because Mr. Lennon has been tested and given a clean bill of health.  Obviously, he was not responsible for your _‘illness’_ \- I think you called it?”  
  
         Nigel swallowed.  “Well, I suppose that is what he can tell the reporters when they start asking him about it.”  Nigel said with a sneer.  
  
         Again, the lawyer patted Paul’s arm to keep him from reacting.  “Yes, I suppose you could go to the press and make these allegations, but it would be of little satisfaction to you, wouldn’t it?  You’d be no better off, and worse off, in fact, when you consider that the world would then know about your… _illness_ …  Whereas, if you choose to keep the information to yourself, things might go better for you.”  
  
         Nigel’s agile mind stopped spinning, and he became still.  They were going to offer him money.  His ploy had worked after all!   “What exactly did you have in mind?” he asked lazily, as if he wasn’t intensely excited about the possibilities.  
  
         “My client believes it is worthwhile to buy your silence on this topic, but only because he doesn’t want to distress his children with unwarranted rumors and innuendo,” the lawyer said smoothly.  “But he is only willing to do this up to a point, and only under certain very specific circumstances.  It will be a take it or leave it offer, and my client…” the lawyer looked quickly at Paul, “… _both_ of my clients are willing to risk the consequences if you turn it down.”  
  
         Paul said in a low voice, “Part of me wants you to turn it down.  I’d like to see you take _me_ on in a fair fight…”  
  
         Nigel shivered.  He had misjudged Paul McCartney very badly.  He had assumed Paul was like every other closet case he’d ever met  – terrified of the wife and kiddies finding out the truth.  He had assumed that Paul would leave John rather than have that truth come out.  But Paul didn’t seem too cowed or worried as he sat there glowering.  
         “Well, perhaps you can tell me what the offer is, and then I can consider my response.”  Nigel was proud of himself that he managed to hold up so well against such intimidating opponents.  


 

*****

  
       Back in Maida Vale, Ringo and Barbara were with John, trying to keep him from falling totally apart.  Barbara tried to distract him with chitchat, but Ringo’s method was more effective.  He was plying John with alcohol.       
         John still didn’t know what to think about all that had happened in the last 24 hours.  He had gone from nursing a horrible secret, to sharing it with Ritchie, and then sharing it with Paul.  He had spilled out the AIDS poison, and Paul had not run screaming from the room.  True, Paul hadn’t shown the slightest interest in sex with him last night, but he had allowed John to spoon with him.  But Paul’s back had been to John all night, and this had unsettled him.  
  
         And Paul was hiding his emotions again, behind an invisible screen.  John had feared the loss of Paul’s newfound trust and openness, and here it was.  It was happening, and although John knew he should be relieved that Paul hadn’t cast him aside in a rage, the return of careful, cautious, self-contained Paul was a significant loss to John.  It was no more than what he deserved, John knew, but it hurt nonetheless.  
  
         Paul had disappeared that morning to go visit a solicitor.  But last night, before Paul had come to bed, John had overheard Paul in the study, on the telephone, telling Linda everything, including the AIDS bit.  As he heard Paul breaking it to her, and calming her down, and assuring her that all was well and that he had it in hand, and he would never let anyone hurt her or their children, John felt excluded.  He felt now that it was Paul and Linda in one corner, and him in another.  Would there ever be a Paul and John corner again?  
  
         Suddenly the front door opened and shut, interrupting John’s reverie, and the occupants of the sitting room heard two men coming up the stairs, speaking to each other in desultory voices.  One of the voices was Paul’s.  As they entered the sitting room, John stood up.  It was a reflexive move.  He wanted Paul to come over and hug him, but Paul was all business, introducing the man – a lawyer -  to Ringo and Barbara.  Paul then faced John.  John stood there, shaking, not knowing what to do or say.  
         “John, this is your solicitor,” Paul said in a formal tone of voice, “and he and I have just come back from our meeting with Nigel.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The threat may be over, but the aftermath remains to be negotiated...

         Ringo had filled Barbara in on all the details of the sordid Nigel affair the night before, so she was not shocked at Paul’s announcement.  But she saw the tension between John and Paul, and it had an incendiary feel to it.   Paul looked like he was in control, and from what she knew about Paul from Ritchie, she also knew that he could take care of himself.  Her concern and pity was directed at John, who looked lost and forlorn in the wake of Paul’s matter of fact declaration.  
  
         The lawyer suggested that they all sit down (Ringo and Barbara had also stood up when John did), and they all tried to make themselves comfortable.  John, though, was on the very edge of his seat.  
  
         Paul finally seemed to notice this, and said quietly, “It’s okay, John, we have worked out a satisfactory resolution.”  In response, John nodded, but he still was perched on the end of his chair.  He wasn’t really worried about Nigel and his poison anymore, so much as he was worried about losing Paul.  And at that moment, losing Paul seemed to be a very likely outcome.  John had never really believed that Paul would leave him high and dry to deal with the problem himself.  It was Paul’s nature to “fix” things for him, and Paul was also an intensely loyal friend, so he had always known, down deep, that Paul would help him through this.  But John had begun to believe with certainty that his lapse in judgment and the lie that followed it combined to create a deathblow to his hard-fought-for emotional intimacy with Paul.  And perhaps even their whole life together.  
  
         The lawyer cleared his throat, and by then Paul had figured out that the lawyer did this each time he was about to point out an unpleasant truth.  
  
         “Mr. Lawson-Fielding has agreed to the terms of a trust contract,” the solicitor said in a dry voice.  “He will receive up to one million pounds per year for up to five years, and in exchange he is willing to make certain concessions.”  
  
         John was silent.  Paul picked up the thread.  “He forfeits the future payments if he opens his mouth, and you can sue him for breach of contract if he does open his mouth, and demand your money back.”  
  
         John nodded.  He was filled with shame.  How humiliating this all was for him.  Ringo, Barbara, the accountant, Linda, this lawyer sitting here, Paul…they all _knew._  
  
         The lawyer continued.  “Of course, we believe he will not _live_ five years because of his…illness…But if he does, we added a clause that if he is still alive and remains silent, the settlement amount will be renegotiable after 5 years.  And, of course, when he dies, the remaining funds in the trust will revert to your ownership.”  The lawyer was looking directly at John throughout this little speech.  
  
         Ringo sighed in relief, and Barbara squeezed his hand.  Her voice broke the uneasy silence.  “It’s a shame you have to pay that horrible man,” Barbara said softly.  
  
         “It can’t be helped,” the lawyer said succinctly, not willing to disclose any further attorney-client privileged information in front of Ringo and his wife.  
  
         Barbara nodded in understanding, and then subsided into silence again.  
  
         Ringo said, “Scotch all around?”  
  
         “I’d better not.  I have to return to work, now,” the lawyer said.  He turned to Paul and said, “We’ll draft up the papers, and get this all wrapped up by this time next week.  Please make arrangements with the accountant for the funds…” The man’s voice was dying out as Paul accompanied him out of the sitting room, down the stairs, and to the door.  
  
         When they got there, Paul offered the lawyer his hand.  “Thanks for handling this so seamlessly.  Please send _me_ the bill.  John’s paid enough for his mistake, and I don’t want him to know how much your services cost.”  The lawyer nodded, and then left.  
  
         Paul stood in the downstairs hall for a few moments, working up his courage to go back upstairs to face the others.  Now that the danger had passed, he felt adrift.  Alone.  He desperately wished that Linda were there, holding his hand.  He felt an overwhelming need to call her, but he knew he would have to wait until at least a little later, when he had some privacy.  Sighing heavily, he mounted the stairs.  
  
         Ringo and Barbara had tried to fill the air with some pleasant conversation as Ringo again distributed tumblers of whiskey to everyone.  Paul came in just as Ringo finished this task, and he plopped down on an easy chair, his exhaustion showing plainly on his face and in his body language.  
  
         The silence became uncomfortable, and Ringo finally stirred and said, “Well, I guess we’d better be on our way, Barbara, we’ve got plans for the night.”  There were no plans, but Barbara knew that Ringo was right.  The two men needed their privacy right now.  This time John got up and followed them to the top of the stairs.  Ringo said, “We’ll show ourselves out,” and he and Barbara disappeared down the stairs, and a moment later John heard the door slam shut.  
  
         Reluctantly, he headed back in to the sitting room, suddenly awkward in Paul’s presence.  When he was able to steal a look in Paul’s direction, he could see that Paul’s eyes were closed, and he looked as though he might have fallen asleep.  John sat back in his chair and wondered what to do.  Should he go in to another room and watch television?  Should he stay here and read a book?  What?  
  
         But then Paul moved.  He opened his eyes, and he was staring at John.  John stared back.  It was a pregnant silence that went on for what seemed to John to be an extremely long time.  Finally, Paul said, “I need to call Linda, and tell her what happened.  I’m sure she is worried out of her mind.”  He stopped for a moment, and the angry part of him couldn’t help it.  He had to say it.  “Her health and privacy - and the privacy of our children - were at stake, too.”  
  
         John nodded, speechless:  Paul was truly angry at him.  Paul pulled himself up out of the chair and headed for the study.  The study door closed firmly behind him.  John could only imagine what Paul was telling Linda.  Not knowing what else to do, John sat in the room as it darkened outside.  Paul had been on the phone for a long time – almost an hour – when the door opened again, and Paul came out.  
  
         Paul retraced his steps to the sitting room, and sat down in the easy chair again.  “I’ve got to go back to Sussex in the morning,” he said in a flat tone.  “I need to make sure my family is okay.”  
  
         John only nodded, a coldness slipping over him.  
  
         “I’ll be gone at least the usual two weeks…” Paul continued.  John did remember that this was supposed to have been Linda’s week, but he still felt abandoned by Paul’s cold statement.  And the words “at least.”  
  
         “You hungry?” John finally assayed.  
  
         Paul regarded him from under hooded eyes.  
  
         “Not really.”  
  
         John didn’t know what to do or say, but he felt as though he had to do or say _something_.  “Thanks for sorting this out, Paul.  I’m so sorry I put you and Linda through this.  I act like an idiot sometimes…”  
  
         Paul’s expression softened somewhat.  “There is no way you could have guessed it would have blown up like this, John.  You made a mistake – it happens.”  
  
         “I suppose it wouldn’t make a difference if I told you I’ll never do anything like that again…”  
  
         Paul wiped his hand down his face and said, “Please don’t make promises you can’t keep.  It only makes it all worse…” Paul’s voice was strained and filled with pain.  So many times over the years John had promised, and so many times…  
  
         “I’m not making false promises!” John shouted back.  “It was a stupid thing I did!  And I won’t do it again!”  
  
         Paul nodded at John, but in a watchful way that made John think Paul was just humoring him.   Paul really didn’t trust John not to cheat on him again this way:  that was John’s take-away from this little conversational exchange.  John subsided back into silence.  
  
         Paul finally said, “I’m going up to the music room to work on that song we’re struggling with,” and he was up and out the door before John could say anything.  
  
         John sat by himself for a while, and felt the anger building up inside of him.  He’d said he was sorry!  He had prostrated himself!  He had worried for two whole days over whether he had AIDS!  He had been shamed and humiliated by the blackmailing!  What more did Paul expect of him?  He wasn’t perfect; never said he was.  How could Paul be so _cold_?  Now angry, John got up and started banging around – first in the sitting room, and then in the kitchen.  _Well, I’m not going to apologize again.  I’ve done it until I’m blue in the face!  He is just going to have to get over it!_ He started scrambling up eggs for himself, and by the time he had finished he had a pang of guilt.  Perhaps he should bring Paul something to eat… _No!_ He wasn’t going to go crawling back just to get rejected again!  
  
         John ate his meal by himself in miserable silence.  He later tried to watch some television, but kept changing the channels as his anxious thoughts kept intruding.  He drank as much scotch as he could handle, and then stumbled up to bed.  He tossed and turned for a good 45 minutes before falling into a fitful sleep.  


 

*****

  
  
        _There was a terrible storm.  He was on an aircraft carrier and the waves were dwarfing it!  The deck was seesawing up and down in gut-wrenching swells and drops.   The storm was getting worse.  He could feel the deck shifting under his feet, and he was losing his balance…nothing to hold on to.  He was sliding overboard…_  
  
         “ _Paul!”_ The shout pierced the night’s silence.  
  
         Paul jumped awake, turned over, and shook John until he was awake.  John was covered in sweat.  “John!  Wake up!  You’re having a bad dream!”  
  
         Little by little John surfaced out of the depths of his drowning death and back into his real life.  He could see, by the silvery light coming in from an opposite window, that Paul was leaning over him, with concern showing in his face.  John’s heart was racing, and he had to sit up to regain his breath.  Paul got up and went to the bathroom, and came back with a hand towel and a glass of water.  As John gulped the water, Paul wiped the sweat off John’s neck, shoulders, back, and chest with the towel.   Slowly recovering, John allowed himself to fall back against the pillows again.  
  
         Paul did the same, although he was on his side, facing John, with worry on his face.  “Bad dream?” he asked softly, knowing it was a stupid question, but not knowing what else to say.  
  
         John didn’t answer the question.  Instead, he asked one of his own.  “Do you hate me now?  Is it over between us?”  His voice was naked with fear and pain.  
  
         Paul exhaled and tried to provide John with a reassuring smile.  “I’m just mad at you a bit, is all,” he finally said.  “I don’t _hate_ you.  Don’t be silly.  I just need time…I think we _both_ need time.  This was an ordeal for everyone involved…”  
  
         John’s eyes were hungrily awaiting more.  
  
         “I need some time away from you, John, just to get my bearings.  I haven’t had any time to really digest it all.  I mean, you slept with another man, in our home and in our bed, just because I needed to spend time with my family.  You lied to me about it repeatedly, and risked all of our lives because of the AIDS thing.  You were being blackmailed, and you didn’t trust me enough – you didn’t warn me, and you didn’t respect me enough - to tell me…”  
  
         “I know, I know,” John groaned, “But it wasn’t from lack of trust or respect.  I was so afraid of losing you.  The damn thing just got bigger and bigger…”  
  
         Paul nodded, and then said, “I’ll probably get over it, John.  And probably sooner rather than later.  You know I have never been able to hold anything against you for long.  But I need time, and it seems a small price for you to pay, given what you put us all through.”  
  
         John swallowed the lump in his throat, and couldn’t help saying, “Whatever I put _you_ through, I put _myself_ through worse…”  
  
         Paul accepted this comment with good grace.  He had no doubt that John had been through hell over the last few weeks.  And Paul had only suffered like that for a few days.  He reached out and rubbed his hand along John’s side, and then whispered, “We both need our sleep.  I’m getting up early in the morning to leave for Sussex, so don’t be surprised if I’m gone when you wake up.”  
  
         John felt tears building up in his eyes, but he said nothing.  They lay there facing each other, on their sides, until first Paul and then finally John fell asleep.  It was cold comfort to John that Paul had opened up a little to him, because the things Paul had said had filled his head with fear.  


 

*****

  
  
        Paul had fulfilled his promise to Linda.  He had solved John’s problem, he had returned promptly to her, and he had resolved to spare her and his children any further drama.  
  
         He was sitting on the back patio wrapped in a thick jacket, and it was evening.  Linda was sitting next to him, sipping a hot cup of peppermint tea, and they were watching a peacock strutting across the lawn.  
  
         “How is John holding up?”  Linda finally asked.  They had steered clear of any discussion of the debacle recently resolved, so this was the first mention of anything related to it.  
  
         Paul sighed and said, “He’s a wreck.  And I’m not making it any easier, ‘cuz I’m so furious with him.  It’s a good thing I’m here, because I’m afraid if he’d gone on poking me about it I would have exploded.”  
  
         “I don’t blame you for being angry.  He cheated on you.”  
  
         Paul looked at Linda in surprise.  “I don’t really care about that _per se_ ,” he said.  “I mean, I don’t _own_ John, and I can hardly object when I spend half my life with you and the children, and – frankly – he knows that I always put you first.”  
  
         “Paul, _please_.  He _lured_ you away from me allegedly because he couldn’t live without you.  You were supposedly the only one he loved…”  
  
         Paul smiled at his wife.  Women were such wonderful, fanciful creatures.  “What John did with Nigel had nothing to do with _love_ , Lin,” he said softly.  “It was just sex.  I get that.  No big deal, at least – okay, it hurt me a bit to know that he would have sex with another man.  But it was too romantic of me to think he wouldn’t, you know?  If a bloke likes a thing, and he wants it – he has a tendency to reach for it.”  
  
         Now it was Linda’s turn to smile at her husband.  Men were such goal-oriented, predictable creatures.  “Well, the whole thing was so _sordid_ , Paul.  He came so close to exposing you, and subjecting our family to a terrible invasion of our privacy.”  
  
         That was an interesting topic.  “Lin, what would you do if me and John – well, if our relationship was made public?  How would you react?  It could happen at any time, you know, especially when our album is released and public attention is on us again.  They’ll be all over us – the press, I mean.”  
  
         Linda thought about this seriously for a few moments.  “Well, first, I would want some kind of early warning so we could sit down with the kids and tell them.  Then, second, I would tell the kids to keep their mouths shut – even with their friends - no matter what.  Then, third, I would get them counseling.  Then, fourth, I’d keep _my_ mouth shut no matter what.  And fifth…we would weather it, like we’ve weathered everything else.  It’s _our_ life, and we can live it the way we choose.  What other people think about it matters nothing to me.”  
  
         Paul squeezed her hand, and they sat like that, contented, holding hands, as the evening grew darker around them.  Paul was never afraid of the dark when Linda was holding his hand.  He felt bad that John was alone.  


 

*****

  
       
         Paul had asked Ringo to keep an eye on John while he was gone, and Ringo did his best to comply.  But John had other ideas.  He was grouchy and recalcitrant, and appeared to want to be left alone to wallow in his own self-pity.      
  
         “ _You’re not my bloody nursemaid_!” he yelled one night, as Ringo attempted to take yet another tumbler of alcohol out of John’s hand.  
  
         “Well, you _need_ one, mate!  You’re a bloody mess, is what you are!”  Ringo yelled back, to no avail.  
        
         Frustrated, Ringo had called George one day and asked him if he’d accompany him to John’s house that evening.  George agreed, secretly pleased that Paul would not be there. He preferred John’s company when Paul wasn’t there.  At Ringo’s insistence, they met at Ringo’s home first, and traveled over in a chauffeur-driven car together.  
  
         “There’s a lot of stuff that you need to know before we get there,” Ringo told George.  
  
         “Oh?”  
  
         “It’s a right mess, the whole bloody thing.”  
  
         “Well what is it?”  George’s curiosity was picqued now.  
  
         “Oh, where to start…” Ringo mumbled.  Slowly, it all came out.  Paul had admitted to him that he and John were lovers.  Paul split his time between John and his family in Sussex, and Linda knew about this and accepted it.  But one time while Paul was in Sussex, John had gotten drunk and had a one-night’s stand with some bloke, and the bloke had been blackmailing him.  
  
         At this point George just _had_ to interrupt.  “ _Blackmailing?_ _Really_?  It sounds like one of those over-the-top suspense novels…”  
  
         “I know.  But listen…” Eventually Paul had figured out what was going on, and John admitted it, and then Paul and a lawyer had negotiated with the blackmailer in order to keep him quiet.  
  
         George was staring at Ringo with a completely frozen face.  
  
         “Thing is,” Ringo finished up, “Paul is back in Sussex with Linda, and he and John aren’t on the best of terms…”  
  
         “I wonder why not?”  George finally said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.  The image of John and some strange man going at it was too alarming for words…  
  
         “But John is a devastated mess.  He is falling apart at the seams.  Paul asked me to keep an eye on him, but he is totally out of control.”  
  
         “So you called for reinforcements – me,” George concluded.  
  
         “Yes, do you mind?  I just need to make sure he is distracted and doesn’t do anything stupid or disastrous for the next few weeks, until Paul comes back.  Someone we can all trust.”  
  
         George thought about this for a moment.  “ _Is_ Paul coming back?” George finally asked Ringo.  
  
         Ringo turned to George with a question mark on his face.  
  
         George explained.  “I don’t understand all this homo crap between them, I can barely believe it, it sounds utterly fantastic to me, but since it’s true, and if _I_ were Paul, I don’t think I’d ever go back to John after what he’d done to me.”  
  
         Ringo sat back in his seat and thought about that as a potential bleak future.  Would he be “nurse-maiding” an ungrateful John for weeks, months, or even years on end?  Because, surely, John would fall completely apart if Paul did not come back.


	21. Chapter 21

        John was at a loss.  His life felt upside down.  He remembered going through this same horrible chaotic uncertainty when he had left Yoko for his “lost weekend.”  This time, however, at least he wasn’t acting out his anguish in public.  Only a very few of his closest friends would be allowed into his inner sanctum while his worst fears came true.  Paul was gone. Yes, Paul was still “there” in the sense that his physical absence was ostensibly temporary, and they still spoke regularly on the phone.  But John felt no emotional connection to Paul during this absence.  For months previously, John had been feeling Paul’s presence even when they were apart.  That feeling was now gone, and it left John feeling alone and fearful.  
  
         He had avoided his therapist for two weeks, and she had started leaving him messages voicing her concern over his welfare, and nagging him about how therapy was most important when it was at its most difficult.  He had stood in the darkened hall staring at the answering machine as Fiona was leaving her messages, wanting to hear what she said, while also feeling pressured and pursued by it.  
  
         Ringo came by most nights, listening to him moan and complain and blame himself and blame Paul and blame the bleeding world, and then Ringo would sit there stoically and listen to the whole litany all over again.  _Ringo must be some kind of a saint,_ John thought to himself on more than one occasion.  He was doing his best to distract John, but John was un-distract-able.  His brain was stuck on a one-way street, and it couldn’t stop.  John knew he should be nicer to Ringo, who was only trying to help him, but instead he found himself snapping at and gainsaying him at every juncture.  John then had to add to his list of fears that he would push Ringo away too, right along with Paul, if he kept it up, but even this thought couldn’t stop him from taking his anxiety and pain out on his old friend.  It was only because Ringo was _there_ , and no one else was, that he was getting the sharp end of John’s stick.  John could only hope that Ringo understood this.  
  
         Then, of course, somewhere near the end of the first week George started showing up, too.   Sometimes he’d come with Ringo, and sometimes he’d be on his own.  Surprisingly, John found George’s company to be more comforting than Ringo’s, because George was so solidly _George_.  He had a way of being empathetic and disapproving at the same time, and that was closer to what John really needed at the time.   He knew he could snap at George without feeing guilty about it, because George could handle it, and give his own back.  This meant that these interactions weren’t adding to John’s already overwhelming load of guilt.  What was more surprising was that George hadn’t made any snarky comments about John’s situation.  He hadn’t pried, and he didn’t appear to be judging, either.  
  
         It was at the end of the second week - after Paul told him that he still needed “time and space” - that John began to have fleeting suicidal thoughts.  Not serious ones - not the kind where you actually plan in your head how it’s going to happen - but little fugitive thoughts that intruded into his musings, like _if it gets too bad, I could always just end it all…_ These thoughts frightened John, because as afraid as he was of his future here on earth, he was far more afraid of “ _the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns_.”  
  
         It was this phenomenon that forced John into facing his therapy again.  It was a Tuesday afternoon in late September, and John spent the first 10 minutes of his session saying nothing, just staring out the window into the grey light, and contemplating the things his therapist had said when he’d first arrived.  
  
         “You missed your sessions for two weeks,” she had said in a matter of fact voice.  
  
         John said nothing.  
  
         “Our last session was about your fear of abandonment, and how on one level you knew that many of your fears were unjustified, but that you would take those fears seriously anyway.  We were working on strategies to use when this fear came to you, remember?”  
  
         John slowly nodded, but still said nothing.  
  
         “Do you not want to confront your fear of abandonment?  Is that why you felt you couldn’t come here?”  
  
         John looked confused, and seemed to negate the comment with a slight shake of his head, although the therapist couldn’t be sure that was John’s intent by the gesture.  
  
         She tried again.  “Did something happen, John?  In your life?”  
  
         John was silent.  
  
         “If something happened in your life, this is the safe place to talk about it.”  
  
         John was staring out the window into the grey light.  He finally stirred.  “I’m afraid that my lover is going to leave me,” he said in a low, shaky voice.  
  
         _Lover?_ The therapist had never heard of this ‘lover’.  John had been coming to her for over a year now, and he had never mentioned that he had someone special in his life.  “I didn’t realize you had a lover,” is what the therapist said in a neutral tone of voice.  “We haven’t spoken about that.”  
  
         As John looked at her, he showed her his emotional turmoil for the first time.  It was suddenly obvious to the therapist whereas a moment earlier it had not been.   
  
         “No,” John said,  “I never speak about it with others.  Well, hardly ever.  Once or twice I have, briefly, with people I trust.”  
  
         The therapist felt the twist of John’s knife, even if it was unintentional.  She – his therapist – was not amongst the ‘trusted’ in his life.   Nevertheless, she persevered.   It was her job to do so.  “How long have you been with this lover?”  
  
         John really didn’t know how to answer that loaded question.  _Thirty years?_ It was in fact thirty years and a few months since that fateful day when they first met at the church fete in 1957.  Maybe _twenty-six years_?  That was when they had become lovers – in Paris, 1961.  Or was it more appropriate to say _seven years_ \- counting from the time in late 1980 when he had confronted Paul in London and persuaded him to become his lover again?  Or maybe it was most accurate to say _four years_ – counting from the time in 1983 when he had left Yoko and moved in with Paul?  None of these were the right answers anyway, John knew, since the true answer was “ _all my fucking life_.”  But that was too metaphysical, and no one would ever understand what he meant by that, except perhaps…Paul.  
        
         “It’s been a while now,” is what John said.  
  
         “Do you want to tell me what happened between the two of you?”  The therapist asked, emphasizing in her tone and visual affect that she knew it was entirely John’s decision whether he chose to discuss it.    
  
         John sighed.  “I was mad, and so I got drunk and cheated.  I lied about the cheating. I regretted what I did immediately, and that is why I lied.  It turned into this huge ugly _thing_.”  
  
         “And she found out?”  The therapist finished for him.  
  
         John heard the pronoun but didn’t correct it.  “Yeah, basically.  And the thing is, the trust is gone.  I can feel the trust is gone, and there isn’t any way for me to get it back.”  
  
         The therapist felt John’s pain and regret.  How like him to get mad and go out and cheat in revenge.  And how like him to immediately regret it and then lie about it.  It was classic self-destructive behavior of the type she’d heard John describe countless times in their therapy sessions.  
  
         “Do you really love her, or is this about the idea of being abandoned again?  Think about your answer.  Sometimes, in a break up, one of the partners will think it is love they are clinging to, when it is actually just their own fear of being left or being alone.”  
  
         John knew what she was talking about.  He had felt that way sometimes with women he had known – possessive and territorial, and not wanting anyone else to have them even if he didn’t really want them himself.  But Paul was different.  There was no way for the therapist to know about it, and John really didn’t want to tell her.  Instead, all he said was,  
  
         “It’s really love.”  
  
         “Does she feel the same way?”  
  
         John thought about that for a moment.  “Yes, the love is still there.  It’s the _trust_ that’s gone, and I’d fought for that my whole li…the whole time we’ve been together.  I had finally achieved it, and then this whole thing happened, and now I’ve lost it.  And I’ve lost it forever, I’m sure.”  
  
         The therapist heard the slip - _all my life_ – and took it (correctly) to mean that John had been searching for that kind of trust from _someone_ for his whole life, and had thought he had finally found it, only to lose it again.  Of course that was extremely painful for him to have to come to terms with.  
  
         “Did she tell you she no longer trusts you?”  
  
         “No, not in so many words…”  
  
         “What words did she use, then?”  
  
         John searched his brain for what Paul had said or done that had made him believe Paul no longer trusted him.  Mainly, it had been Paul’s body language and the careful way he parsed his sentences that had tipped John off.  But there were one or two concrete things…  
  
         “I said I would never do anything like that again, and…” John struggled for a way to say it without using a pronoun, “and what I got back was, ‘please don’t make promises you can’t keep.’”  
  
         The therapist digested this.  It was a very telling comment, made by someone who obviously had some level of insight into John’s character.  “That does sound as though she may not trust you to be faithful to her.  Do you think there is some truth to what she said?  Is it possible that you will cheat on her again?”  
  
         John looked up in shock at the therapist’s comment.  For a brief moment he felt wounded, as if she wasn’t on his side.  But then he realized that it was a fair question.  After all, he had cheated once.  What was stopping him from cheating again?  
  
         “If I get another chance, I won’t do it again,” John said with certainty.  “It isn’t worth it.  I didn’t really want to cheat in the first place!  I’m just turning 47 years old, and I really only want one lover now.”  John then smiled shyly.  “I’m lucky to keep even _one_ lover satisfied; who needs more?”  
  
         The therapist smiled in response to this diversion.  “Have you told her this?”  
  
         “I did say so, but that’s when I got the ‘don’t make promises you can’t keep’ response.”  
  
         “I don’t find it surprising that this was her initial reaction.  But that doesn’t mean she will always feel that way.  If you are to get your message through to her, you will have to say it more than once, and in lots of different ways.  And you will have to find ways to _show_ her that you mean it, as well.”  
  
         John was watching her hopefully from under a doubtful brow.  “Do you think it is possible for someone to trust again, after having their trust broken like this?”  John thought this was a crazy idea.  He himself would _never_ be able to trust someone again in reverse circumstances.  Always assuming, of course, that he could trust anyone enough in the first place, he reminded himself.  
  
         “Yes.  It can happen,” the therapist was saying.  “But only if both sides want it to happen, and work very hard to make it happen.  You know your lover, and I don’t.  Is she the type to dig in and _work_?  Or is she the type to move on at the first sign of trouble?”  
  
         John saw it clearly now.  “Definitely the type to dig in and work,” he said, with no doubt in either his expression or his voice.  
  
         The therapist said, “Well, then, there is a chance.  But there are always so many variables.  I don’t know anything about this relationship, so I am speaking only of my experience in counseling other couples through similar situations.”  
  
         John sat there looking at her, apparently hoping she would say more.  
  
         “It is more common than you might think – sexual infidelity.  And it is very specific to the people involved, how they survive it.  Some people, both men and women, would be permanently wounded by sexual infidelity, and could never really get over it.  With that kind of person, it isn’t always a good idea to try to patch it up, because often they never actually put it behind them and it becomes a poison pill in the relationship, even if the couple sticks together.  Then there are others who aren’t that shaken by sexual infidelity.  They don’t weigh the value of their relationship on sexual monogamy alone; they value the depth of the emotional connection they have with their partner far more.  In that kind of situation, often the cheating can be overcome.  So, your lover – what type is she?  Do you know?”  
  
         John thought about it as objectively as he could.  “I don’t think that sexual fidelity is that important,” John said honestly.  
  
         “So, it might be worth it for you to have this dialogue with her, and ask her to give you another chance to prove that you can be trusted.  The worst thing she can say is ‘no’, and then you’re no worse off than you are now.”  
  
         “That’s true,” John said, although he knew he would plunge an icepick into his ear if he heard Paul say ‘no’ in this context.  It was easy for someone to say, “ _Put yourself out there on the line and see if you get shot down_.”  It was another thing to actually _do_ it.  
  
         John left the session feeling a little more in control of his emotions than he had been when he got there.  He still had grave misgivings about the information he had received.  Yes, Paul was a forgiving sort of person, and had been able to overlook all manner of John’s betrayals of him in the past.  And yes, Paul was not a particularly possessive or territorial lover.  In fact, Paul’s lack of possessiveness had often driven John to despair, seeing as how John equated love with ownership.  But there had been something in the way Paul had acted after he had confronted Nigel that John had never seen in Paul before.   It was this “something” that had John tied up in knots.  


 

*****

  
  
        Later that evening, Fiona wrote out her notes about her session with John.  She was dissatisfied with the way the session had gone, and yet she couldn’t think of how she could have handled it differently.  She had been absolutely floored by his announcement that he had lost this special lover’s trust because he had never given her – in the year that they had been meeting - the slightest hint or clue that he even _had_ a lover.  This ‘lover’ seemed to have appeared out of thin air.  Was John fabricating this storyline as a way to avoid discussing the real issue?  She certainly wouldn’t put it past him.  On the other hand, he had seemed sincerely gutted by the loss of this lover’s trust.  That had seemed utterly genuine to her.  Something wasn’t right about the story, but she had no clue what was wrong.  This didn’t surprise her, really, since patients frequently kept even key parts of their lives away from their therapists only to spring the information on them late in the game.  And John was more secretive and paranoid than her average patient.  Given his situation, he could certainly be forgiven for this, but still…  
  
         Oh, well.  The truth would probably eventually come out, assuming John stuck to his therapy, even if it took many more sessions like these.  She finished her notes, and then packed up her things.  She was going to go home to her far less complicated life, and have a glass of wine while she communed with her pet cat.  


 

*****

  
  
        Paul’s sojourn in Sussex was not relaxing because Paul was finding it impossible to leave his troubles behind, as he had so often been able to do in the past.   The more time he had to think about it, the more he blamed himself for the whole bloody mess.  He never should have given in to John’s blandishments, starting right from that first night in December 1980.  He shouldn’t have gone to that hotel to meet John late at night, because he knew damn well what was going to happen if he went.  Linda had tried to warn him, but he didn’t want to hear it.  He was like Ulysses on the ship as it approached the sirens.  He desperately wanted to hear the sirens, even though he knew they would strip him of rational thought.  The only difference between him and Ulysses was, he didn’t have a bunch of crewmembers willing to tie him to the mast and stuff their own ears with wax to keep him from being lured to the rocky shoals and certain destruction.  
  
         Okay.  Maybe that was a little overly dramatic.  But the point remained – he chose to enter these dangerous waters, and he really didn’t have the right to act shocked and betrayed now that circumstances had turned against him.  And how much pain had he inflicted upon Linda?  And John?  He had told himself that he was trying to make them both happy, but now he understood the truth.  He was only selfishly trying to make _himself_ happy by having both of them, and by not choosing one or the other he had hurt both Linda and John.  The road to good intentions…  
  
         _Oh, I’m full of clichés tonight_ , Paul thought bitterly.  What to do about it though?  Linda was angry with John on the outside, but Paul suspected that underneath she was angry with him, too.  He was the one, after all, who had brought all this craziness down on her.   This episode had brought out the real fears she struggled with on a daily basis – fears that she had not spoken to him about before, and which he blindly and complacently had never divined – that she and their children would be subjected to public humiliation if and when the world found out about his liaison with John.  
        
         Accordingly, Paul was torn.  Part of him believed the only answer was to end it with John.  It would kill him inside, he knew.  He couldn’t even imagine going on without John in his life.  It had been horrible in the ‘70s, and it would be horrible again.  And John would be devastated and never forgive him.  Their album would either not be released, or it would be a sad testimonial to the reunion that never really happened.  But the alternative choice was unthinkable.  He could not leave Linda and his children.  Linda had been there for him when no one else was, and he had brought these children into the world and they had to be his number one responsibility as a result, no matter what.  
  
         Somehow, he was going to have to make it up to Linda.  He was going to have to force himself to walk the straight and narrow, even though an ever-growing part of himself wanted to meander off on to John’s unpredictable trajectory.  Linda could _never_ give him what John gave him – the pure unadulterated passion for life and sex, the creative symbiosis, the shared memory of climbing together out of obscurity to the top of the world, their own particular shared blackly humorous way of looking at the world.  But, on the other hand, John could never give him what _Linda_ gave him – absolute loyalty, common sense advice which grounded him, nurturing support no matter what craziness was going on, and a warm, loving home full of healthy, laughing children.  
  
         It had always been a cruel choice, right from the start.  And here he was at the same fucking crossroad – he was going in circles in his life, obviously, to keep ending up here – and this time he would have to make the hardest choice of all.  With this in mind, he went to find Linda.  He needed to share his dilemma with her, and he knew she would help him see his way through to the right decision, however painful it might be.  
  
         She was, of course, in the kitchen.  It was late at night, the kids were all in their rooms (hopefully asleep) and she was sitting in the light cast from the stove vent, quietly reading a magazine article.  Paul slipped into the chair across from her, and reached out to her.  Absent-mindedly, her hand went out to meet his half way.  They both squeezed.  
  
         “You’ve been awfully quiet these last several days,” Linda said calmly, putting her magazine down.  
  
         “On the outside, maybe, but my brain has been screaming at me,” Paul responded, with a goofy smile.  
  
         “John?”  
  
         “Yeah, John.  But also you.  I feel as though I’m at a place where I have to choose between you.”  Paul was watching Linda steadily.  
  
         Linda was not afraid.  She knew if a choice were to be made, that Paul would stay with her, if only for the sake of the children.  But she wasn’t sure she 100% agreed with what Paul said, either.  
  
         “Why is that?” she asked, neutrally.  
  
         “Why?  You have to ask?”  Paul’s comical expression belied the seriousness of his intent. “This whole bloody mess – I put you through hell, Linda.  I’m so sorry.”  
  
         “Well, ‘hell’ is a strong word.  I’ve been through a lot worse, but I know what you mean.  You feel responsible that the kids and I could have been embarrassed publicly by John’s actions, or even our health threatened.”  
  
         “I didn’t give it any real thought, Lin, how you and the kids would feel if the truth about me and John got out.  There is a very good chance that it will, now, what with our album coming out.  Times have changed, and reporters don’t pull their punches about celebrities’ sex lives anymore.  I don’t feel as though I have the right to put you and the children through all that.”  
  
         Linda thought about this for a moment.  “I’m not sure there is anything you can do about it now, Paul,” she said in a reasonable tone of voice.  “You can’t un-ring the bell.  Even if you break up with John the press can still find out and write about the fact that you had been lovers before.  It is one of those things that you really can’t control.”  
  
         Paul hadn’t thought of that before.  But of course Linda was right.  He had lived in fear for several years – in the ‘60s and ‘70s – that the press would publish innuendo about John and him.  Frankly, he had been amazed when they didn’t – even when they were openly speculating about John’s sexuality, they had never thrown Paul into the mix before.  But things were very different now, what with Elton John, and Boy George, and Freddie Mercury…  
  
         “So what can I do to protect you from this?”  Paul asked, clearly desperate.  
  
         “Paul, you _can’t._ That’s just my point.  And you don’t have to, and I don’t expect you to.  I told you – if it comes out, the kids and I will keep our heads down and soldier on.  We’ll keep our thoughts to ourselves, and let all the gossip do its worst.  Then, when the worst of it is over, we’ll pick up and get on with our lives.  It isn’t something I’m especially looking forward to, but I can deal with it.  And…” Linda stopped for a moment, wondering if she should say more.  
  
         “Yes?”  Paul asked.  
  
         “And, I knew what I was getting into when I married you, Paul.  I knew you loved him more than me, and that you probably always would.  I accepted that as a given right from the start.  It was only other women I wasn’t willing to share you with.”

 

*****

 

         George and Ringo had taken over John’s sitting room.  George had selected the music to play on the stereo, and Ringo had closed the curtains, started the fire in the fireplace, and poured out drinks for everyone.  It was a nippy fall evening, the last dregs of summer having finally been drained.  This was the third evening when both George and Ringo had been to John’s home over the last three weeks, keeping him from committing suicide.  Or, at least, that was the sick joke that George and Ringo shared.   They had taken turns, night after night, and sometimes doubled.  They were very worried about John.  
  
         It had been three weeks since Paul had gone to Sussex, and although he called John faithfully every evening at 10:30 p.m., he made small talk about what was going on with his family, discussed progress on the album, but had made no promises about when he would return to London.  Always he said that he still needed “time and space.”  This never failed to send John into paroxysms of anger and pain, each emotion sweeping over the other in turn.  George and Ringo were left – at least in the evenings if not the days - to deal with it.  
  
         George had spent a great deal of time thinking about what he had learned.  He had been genuinely surprised to find out about John and Paul’s sexual relationship, but for whatever reason he no longer felt disgust at the thought.  What he felt instead was a sense of sadness that neither of them, in all these years, had ever trusted him enough to tell him about it.  He had thought they had all been closer than brothers; but here again was strong evidence that John and Paul only ever cared about the life they shared together, without George.  It was just one more example of the way in which they had marginalized him, George thought bitterly.  And here he was again cleaning up John’s pieces after their _second_ failed relationship.  George sighed, and plopped down in a chair.  His eyes engaged John’s in silent entreaty.  
  
         “What?” John demanded truculently.  
  
         “You need to get up, and go out, and live a bit,” George said flatly.  “You need to show Paul that life goes on without him.  You might even enjoy yourself.”  
  
         John grimaced.  “Life _doesn’t_ go on without him, George.  That’s just the _point,_ isn’t it?  
  
         “It’s no good if Paul knows that, is it?”  George pointed out logically.  
  
         “The last time I tried to make Paul jealous, I fucked everything up pretty badly.  It never works with Paul.  When he feels betrayed he just cuts you out of his life.  He doesn’t get all possessive and come running back…” John glared into his tumbler of whiskey and went back to his bleak thoughts.  
  
         George again sighed, this time with increased exasperation.  He had run through the last of his patience.  This lonely-heroine-dying-on-a-couch routine was starting to annoy him big time.  No wonder Paul was staying away!  Who could blame him?  
  
         Just then they heard the back door opening and closing.  
  
         John sat up.  “Paul?” he said out loud, as if without volition.  
  
         A few moments later they could hear the familiar rhythmic sound of Paul coming upstairs, and then he was there in the doorway.  
  
         “George!  Ritchie!” He greeted them, looking healthy and cheerful.  
  
         “Paul,” both Ringo and George repeated back at him in tandem, neither of them stirring from their seats, their voices identically flat and unenthusiastic.  
  
         Paul turned to John, who was staring at him in suspense from his seat on a sofa.  “Hey, mate, how’re ya doin’?” Paul asked softly.  
  
         “I don’t know yet,” John said in a heart-breaking response.  
  
         Paul smiled at him, and held his arms out.  “Come ‘ere, ya big git, you look like you need a hug!”  


 

*****

  
  
        After John had moved in for his hug, and the surprised greetings had been completed, the four ex-Beatles were seated in the sitting room, a bit at a loss for words.  
  
         Ringo finally spoke up. “This is a bit like the old days, when we all sat around in hotel rooms trying to think of something to say or do to pass the time.”  
  
         First George laughed, and then Paul.  Finally, John laughed as well.  
  
         “And this is just as piss-poor a way to pass the time as it was _then_ ,” John snarked.  
  
         The other three laughed.  It wasn’t as funny as you would have thought, given the amount of laughter it garnered.  It was just good for their morale to laugh a bit just then.  
  
         “Well, I want to be getting home,” George announced, moaning as he dragged himself to his feet.  “I’ve spent more time in John’s company in the last two weeks than I have since 1966.  And I’m full up with it.”  As the others chuckled, he moved towards the door, and Ringo joined him.  
  
         “Me too.”  Ringo announced.  “It’s been great, John, but enough’s enough.”  
  
         “Yeah, it’s your turn now, Paul,” George announced over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs.  
  
         Paul followed them out, and stopped them half way down the stairs.  “Has it been that bad?” he asked them.  
  
         George rolled his eyes, and Ringo shrugged his shoulders before saying, “Go back in there and talk to him.  I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it.”  
  
         “Well, thanks Ritchie, for looking after him.  And you too, George.”  
  
         The two men disappeared down the stairs, and soon the door’s slamming echoed up the stairwell.  
  
         John was waiting for him in the sitting room.  He was seated on one end of a sofa, leaning back, and observing Paul with distrusting eyes.  
  
         Paul could feel the distrust, but didn’t feel guilt.  John had reaped what he had sown, even though John always hated having to live with the consequences of his own actions.  Paul sat in an easy chair, facing John.  Their eyes locked horns for a few moments, before John spoke.  
  
         “So.  You finally came back.”  
  
         Paul nodded affirmatively.  
  
         “I thought perhaps you wouldn’t.”  John groused.  
  
         Paul’s left eyebrow reached up towards the ceiling.  
  
         “You left me hanging.”  John’s voice was flat and a bit resentful.  
  
         Paul crossed one long, elegant leg over the other, and, staring at what appeared to be a cuticle on one of his fingers, he said in a lazy voice, “I told you I needed time and space to sort myself and my family out after…well, after everything that happened.”  
  
         “And so?” John asked, preparing himself for the worst.  
  
         Paul looked up and there was a twinkle in his eye.  “And so,” he said in what could only be described as a blatantly flirtatious manner, “I’m back.  Aren’t I?”  
  
         John’s eyes perked, and so did his cock, a little.  “Oh?  So, you’re just sailing back in here as though nothing has happened, is that it?”  
  
         “Do you have a problem with that?”  Paul asked in a supercilious tone, a grin hiding just behind his face.  
  
         A long silence ensued.  And then:  
  
         “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.”  John said succinctly.  
  
         Paul laughed out loud.  “You’re a _corker_ , John Lennon,” he announced loudly to the room at large.  
  
         “I’m left in the shade by you, Paul McCartney!”  


 

*****

  
       
         There really was nothing better than the thirty-minute aftermath of soul-moving sex, except perhaps the sex itself.  At least that is what Paul thought as he lay next to John.  They were lying on their backs, under rumbled sheets and blankets, saying nothing and contemplating the ceiling in the bedroom.  Paul knew he owed John an explanation and some reassurances.  He hoped that the night’s lovemaking had laid the groundwork.  
  
         John’s low soft voice interrupted Paul’s thoughts.  “You do know how horrible I have felt about it all.  It was like the house that Jack built in reverse.  One thing just tumbled down after the other, and I didn’t have any way to stop it.”  
  
         Paul paused a bit before speaking.  “I guess it just felt, to me, like a series of little betrayals.”  
  
         “I never intended to betray you!”  John’s voice was strident.  
        
         Paul chuckled.  “My son was riding his bike on only his back wheel down our bumpy driveway the other day.  He was showing off for his friends.  Linda shouted at him to stop before he hurt himself.  He shouted back, ‘I don’t intend to fall!’ to which Linda replied, ‘That’s why they call them ‘accidents’, James, you don’t plan them!’”  
  
         “Your point being?” John asked, although he pretty much knew the point.  
  
         “It was all _avoidable_ , what happened.  Every single bit of it.  You had the power in your hands to make the right choice, and each time you made the wrong one.  You engaged in risky behavior, and it went wrong.  You didn’t plan it, but it was foreseeable – at least some of it was – and you did it anyway.”  
  
         “I don’t think like you do – miles ahead – scrutinizing all the risks, calculating my chances.  I never have.  You know this about me; it shouldn’t be a surprise.”  
  
         Paul heard this, and at one level he agreed with it.  “I do understand it, John.  But does that mean I always have to _like_ it?  Would it be such a hard thing for you to _think_ before you do some wild-assed crazy thing?”  
  
         “Well, okay, I shouldn’t have put myself in that position, where this guy could take advantage.  But after that, what could I do?  The dye was cast.”  
  
         “You lied to me about it.  You should have just been truthful.  I would have kicked that asshole to the curb months ago!”  
  
         “I was afraid of losing you.”  
  
         Paul was momentarily disarmed by this confession.  “Well, now you know that I would have forgiven you.  Instead, you assumed I would act like a jilted bird, running off to mama with a broken heart.  I’m a strong person, John.  I can take what life deals out.  I don’t run away just because the going gets tough.”  
  
         “Yeah, I know, I see that.  But people have _always_ left me when I fuck up…”  
  
         Paul had heard that before, and in the past he had always silently let the excuse pass.  But not this night.  “No, John, people _don’t_ always leave you when you fuck up.  People love you in spite of your fuck-ups; they accept and love you the way you are.  None of us ever left you – you pushed us away.  And the _only_ people who _really_ left you in your whole life were your mother and father.  And you had done nothing to deserve that.  So, in truth, your ‘fucking up’ had nothing to do with why they did what they did.”  
  
         John listened in a chastened silence.  This apercu was not that different from one he had already discussed with his therapist.  It was really scary that you could sit in a room in the light of day examining your fear of abandonment with a therapist, and then go home and fall right back into the behavior as if you didn’t have a clue or a choice.  
  
         “So, what is this going to do to _us_?”  John asked warily.  
  
         Paul laughed in a dry way.  “What doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger,” he joked.  And then he said, seriously, “Honestly, I feel responsible for why you went off with this bloke in the first place.  I shouldn’t have put you – or Linda – in this impossible position.  I should have made my choice and stuck to it.”  
  
         John’s heart went cold.  He muscled up some words to block what he feared was coming.  “No, you didn’t put me in this position!  I _wanted_ to be in this position!  This was just me fucking up again!”  
  
         Paul turned his head to look at John, who had moved on to his side, his head propped up on one palm.  Their eyes met, and Paul smiled into John’s eyes.  “Don’t worry, John.  I’m just confessing to you that I did the same thing you did.  I engaged in risky behavior – having two spouses.  The harm it could do was foreseeable, and I engaged in it anyway.  I never _intended_ for anyone to be hurt by it.  Inevitably, _all_ of us have been hurt by it at one point or the other.  So, I owe you an apology too.  I’ve already apologized to Linda.”  
  
         “You’re not going to leave me, are you?”  John’s voice was ethereal – almost ghostlike.  
  
         “No,” Paul said calmly.  “I talked about it with Linda.  She and I agree that we have gone too far down this path to make other decisions now.  You’re an important part of our family now, and we like it that way.   You’re too much a part of me, and so if you’re willing to go on this way, so am I.  We just have to be more mindful – both of us – of our actions, and how they might impact everyone else in our family.”  
  
         Relief coursed through John’s body, and he fell back against the bed again.  
  
         “So John.  Here’s the thing.”  Paul’s voice had become businesslike.  “If you have affairs in the future – don’t bring them to our home; wear a fucking condom; and stay away from too much booze.  Deal?”  
  
         John couldn’t believe what he heard.  “You’re okay with me having _affairs_?”  
  
         Paul laughed.  “You’ve got a strong sex drive.  I understand.  When I’m with Linda, I’m having sex.  Why would I deny that to you?  But I do think it is too risky doing it with men, John, if you could possibly avoid it, because of the blackmail possibilities…”  
  
         John nodded wisely.  “Women are safer, I agree.”  
  
         “ _If_ you wear a condom.”  
  
         “The way I feel right now, though, I don’t think I’ll _ever_ want to have an affair again.”  
  
         “Just so you know that you _can_.  But not when I’m here – only when I’m in Sussex.  I think that’s a fair deal, don’t you?”  
  
         _Women only.  With condoms.  Not in our home.  Don’t get passed out drunk.  And only when Paul’s in Sussex_.   John checked off the criteria in his head and then turned to Paul.  “I can do that.”  
        
         Paul leaned over and kissed John sweetly on the lips.  “Good.  Now let’s put this all behind us, and get some sleep.”  
  
         It was a détente of sorts.  John was relieved that the relationship had survived, but he still had strong doubts that Paul would ever be as open with him again as he’d been before he found out about Nigel.  


 

*****

  
  
       The next day they were in the studio at EMI listening to what the producers had done to the master while Paul had been in Sussex.  John and Paul acted as though nothing remarkable or untoward had happened recently.  The _sturm und_ _drang_ of the whole Nigel Affair had been invisible to the producers, sound engineers, session musicians and businessmen who hovered around and fussed over John and Paul as if they were prize cows at the county fair.  
  
         The master tape rolled to a stop.  
  
         “Paul, I think it’s done.”  
  
         “I dunno, it seems that on that third song…”  
  
         “No, Paul, it’s done.”  John had that stubborn look in his locked jaw that Paul knew so well.  
  
         “But the intro…”  
  
         “The intro is fine.  It’s done.”  
  
         Paul turned to the two producers for support, but they had both been burned by getting between the two giants before, so neither of them would meet Paul’s eyes.  They were determined to remain neutral.  
  
         “I know it’s hard for you to let go, Paul.  But I’m sick and tired of these songs now.  I can’t be objective anymore, because we’ve worked them all to within an inch of their lives.  It’s time to stop.”  John’s voice was not unkind, but it brooked no denial.  
  
         With indecision writ large across his countenance, Paul shrugged and threw his hands up.  “Okay.  Okay.  But…”  
  
         John silenced Paul with two raised eyebrows.  
  
         “Okay.  So that’s it then.”  Paul finally said, conceding defeat.  He knew that the album was done.  He was just afraid to let it go, only to be torn apart by the critics.  He and John had really shook things up this time; they had taken risks, and departed from their old habits.  John had even sung some of Paul’s songs, and vice versa.  Decisions had been made on the sole basis of whose voice sounded best for the songs.  They had rarely done that in the Beatles because of the competition going on between them.  Now, neither of them was keeping score of who wrote what, or whose song was the single.  In fact, they had both settled on one of John’s songs as the first single.  John believed it was the best song on the album.  Paul believed it was _John’s_ best song on the album, and he also knew the critics would like the album better if the first voice they heard was John’s.  
  
         Having signed off on the final master, John and Paul went off to get a late dinner at a Chinese restaurant within walking distance of Abbey Road studios.   They were known to the owner/manager, who escorted them to the more private back dining room, so they would not be on display in the front.  They sat discussing the album, and what was in store for them when it was released.  They were looking at a mid-January 1988 release date, about four months away.  There would be a lot of post-production work ahead for Paul (John didn’t like that stuff), and the P.R. machine would have to be ramped up.  Paul felt the familiar thrum of excitement mixed with terror that came with “carve up time” (as Linda delicately put it).  But this time, with John, the critics would probably be kinder to him.  
  
         “They’re gonna say, ‘ _See – Paul needed John.  Paul’s work is better now that he has John_.’”  Paul’s voice sounded bitter to John.  
  
         “Well, _my_ work is better now that I have _you_ ,” John pointed out logically.  
  
         “Yeah, maybe so.  But they’re not going to say _that_.”  
  
         John studied Paul from across the table.  Paul was busy trying to capture some noodles and broccoli with his chopsticks, and he was wearing that adorable scrunched up bitchface expression he wore whenever he was concentrating.  “You know, Paul,” John drawled suddenly, a mischievous smile lighting up his face.  
  
         Paul looked up, his eyebrows urging John to continue.  
  
         “We could fuck with the reporters and critics.  We could tell them that you wrote some of my songs, and that I wrote some of yours.  Maybe you’re wrong and they’ll be honest about the songs in their reviews.  But if they’re not – if they do what you think they’re gonna do – it would be a laugh on them, wouldn’t it?”  
  
         Paul smiled back.  “It sure would.  We wouldn’t ever have to tell them, either.  It could be our secret.”  
  
         “They’re so invested in their view of me, it’s weird.  I don’t know why they do that.”  John shook his head.  He felt bad for Paul.  He also felt guilty for what he knew was his part in it.  
  
         “I know why they do it,” Paul said. “They identified with you when they were in their twenties because you did and said all the crazy shit that they never had the courage to do or say.  They were living vicariously through you.  Now you represent their long lost rebellious youth, and they’ve romanticized it.  In fact, you’re as much a prisoner of what they’ve projected on to you as I am.”  
  
         John was nodding as Paul spoke.  “They’re daft,” is all he could think to say.  “I’m not going to spend my life being angry and hateful just so they can feel good about themselves.  I have a right to be happy, just like everyone else.”  
  
         With that, John popped open his fortune cookie.  He laughed and showed it to Paul.  
  
         _You are about to embark on a momentous journey._  
  
         Paul laughed, and popped open his cookie.  Smiling, he handed it to John.  
  
         _You will no longer be alone._


	22. Chapter 22

         It was 12 October 1987, and George Harrison’s album _Cloud Nine_ , produced by Jeff Lynne, was released to strong critical reviews and commercial success.  His single, _I’ve Got My Mind Set On You_ was a quick number one hit.   
  
         George hadn’t shared the album with John and Paul before releasing it, but did send them a complimentary copy on the day of the release.   Paul put it on the turntable almost immediately, but John told himself fiercely that he wasn’t interested and went into the kitchen to bang around loudly so he couldn’t hear it over the din he created.  John should have been happy for George’s success, but all he could feel was envy and fear.  Envy that George was garnering all that positive praise, and fear that his own work would not receive the same.  He also was pissed – irrationally so – that George had gotten his album released sooner than he and Paul did.  It was irrational because George had started working on his album before John and Paul had started on theirs.  But now they would have to follow him up, and Paul had told John they’d have to push their release date back a few months – from January to March – so as not to be in competition with George’s album.  Paul was genuinely interested in not stepping on George’s success in any way, and John wanted George’s success to have faded away before their own effort was released.  
  
         Truthfully, Paul had mixed feelings too.  As he listened to George’s album he was impressed.  He was feeling bad about not being more positive about George’s work in the Beatles.  He’d been defensive about it for years, but lately he had begun to see it through George’s eyes.  He and John had been cocky bastards.  Well, life had humbled them, as it had a tendency to do to everyone.  They’d both had the stuffing kicked out of ‘em pretty roundly over the years.  Still, he wouldn’t be Paul if he didn’t also feel competitive.  He was content to let George have his moment to shine, but felt ever more determined to blow everyone out of the water with his and John’s new work.  In the meantime, he and John would have to bide their time, and listen to the plaudits for George with frozen smiles on their faces.  Paul chuckled at himself for this.  He could see the humor and humanity in it, even if he couldn’t stop his competitive juices from being activated.  _Oh well, George’s success serves the both of us right_ , Paul said to himself, _because we’re a pair of egomaniacs who deserve to be taken down a peg or two_.  
  


*****

  
  
         Not long after the release of George’s album, John and Paul got word that the Beatles were going to be inducted into the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame in January 1988.   John was against the idea of attending.   
  
         “I don’t get why rock ‘n rollers want to be in a fucking museum,” John groused to Paul one morning over his corn flakes.   
  
         Paul roused himself out from behind his newspaper.  “It sounds like a fun evening to me.  I don’t care about the museum bit, but I don’t see why it should stop us from going to the ceremony.”    
  
         “Paul, we can’t do that whole Beatles thing on the eve of releasing our new album.  It will take all the attention away from what we’re trying to accomplish.  They’ll all come out of the woodwork, begging us to all perform together again.”  
  
         “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” Paul responded reasonably.  “George isn’t likely to want to do it, now that his solo career is going so well.”   
  
         “But that won’t stop the press and the public from clamoring over it.”  
  
         “Nothing to be done about it,” Paul opined.  “We might as well grin and bear it, and wait a few months, and put our album out.  I’m sure it will be okay.”  
  
         John fiddled with his spoon for a moment before saying what really worried him.  “I don’t fancy performing there with George riding so high.”   
  
         Paul looked John in the eyes and said, “That’s not very big of you John.”   
  
         “Well, don’t you feel that way too?”  John asked.  
  
         “No, I don’t.  I don’t have a problem with it at all, and neither should you.  George is one of us, and of course he’s successful.  _He_ looks good, _we_ look good.”       Paul waited to see if John was going to respond, but John said nothing, so Paul lifted his newspaper back up and went back to reading.  
  
         John pushed his bowl away, and left the room.  He didn’t like the whole idea of being forced to play into people’s fantasies about a Beatle reunion.  He had spent the last 18 years trying to _escape_ the Beatles, only to find out that there _was_ no escape.  He was stuck in Beatleville forever.  But he didn’t have to help stoke the fire, did he?  _Harumph._  
  


*****

  
  
         One evening in early November, George Harrison dropped by unexpectedly.  He just turned up on their doorstep, and rang the bell.  Paul wasn’t home – he was at MPL offices doing some business – but John was there, and he answered the door.  He was shocked to see George standing there.  
  
         “Can I come in then?” George asked after John had stood there staring at him for a good 15 seconds.  
  
         “Huh?  Oh yeah, of course, come in.”   
  
         George followed John up the stairs and into the sitting room, and John asked him if he wanted a drink.  While John was fixing it, George squirmed around in his chair a bit, readying himself for what he had to ask.  
  
         “Where’s Paul then?” he asked, as John handed him a drink and sat down.  
  
         “He’s at the office.  He should be home in an hour or two.”  
  
         “He’s a hard-working lad, our Paul,” George noted and John smiled back in agreement.   
  
         “Bleepin’ _workaholic_ , more like,” John added.  “So what brings you here unannounced?”  
  
         “Sorry ‘bout that.  I thought I’d just come over before I lost my nerve.”  
  
         “Nerve?”   
  
         “I’ve been avoiding you and Paul a bit.”  
  
         “I haven’t noticed,” John said in an ironic, flat voice.  
  
         George winced.  “It hasn’t been easy, you know.”  
  
         “What hasn’t been easy?”  John asked, sincerely clueless.  
  
         “Dealing with…you know.  You and Paul…”  
  
         “Ahhh, I see,” John said.  “Does it disgust you, Geo?” John asked gently, using an old nickname in a ploy to disarm George.  
  
         George squirmed in his chair some more.  “I can’t say it’s something that I understand at all.  All those women…”  
  
         “Yeah, well, I was never all that interested in ‘all those women’, if truth were told,” John quietly admitted.  George looked up, his curiosity showing patently.  “It was better than a sharp stick in the eye, of course,” John joked, “but I would have much preferred to just have Paul to myself.”   
  
         George heard the words and had to force himself not to cast his eyes down.  He did feel himself blushing.   
  
         John could plainly see George’s discomfort, but continued anyway.  “I’ve been confused about my sexuality forever, George, although I’ve gone through periods where I could be honest with myself about it, and then other periods where I tried to banish it from my thoughts.”   
  
         George was searching for words.  “Are you…well, are you…”  
  
         “Gay?” John finished for him.  “I’ve thought I was sometimes.  But I don’t know.  I have enjoyed sex with women, but I just can’t allow myself to be emotionally close to them on an equal level.  They’ve either got to be below me, something less than a whole person – like Cyn was -  or an overwhelming, controlling Amazon kind of person – like Yoko was.  I never had the knack of just being myself with a woman.  I could only really be myself with Paul.”  
  
         George looked up from his hands shyly.  “And Paul?”  
  
         John snorted.  “Paul was meant to be straight.  And he would have been, if he’d never met me.  I set my cap at him the moment I laid eyes on him…although it took me awhile to figure out that was what I was doing.  It took me four years – _four bloody years_! – to get up the nerve to even talk to him about it.”  
  
         “Were the two of you…doing that…the whole time?”  George was still finding it very hard to believe.  
  
         “We became lovers that time we went to Paris, George, in 1961.  Remember?  So yes, ever since then.”  
  
         George was silent for a while.  “Why…why didn’t you tell me?”  George’s voice was soft and plaintive.  John could see the hurt feelings in George’s eyes.  
  
         “We were scared of it, Geo.  We didn’t even talk about it with _each other_ , much less anyone else.  And, really, if we had told you then, wouldn’t you have been grossed out?”  
  
         George managed to chuckle at that.  “Fair enough.  But I would have gotten over it quickly.  I just feel bad that you never trusted me enough…”  
  
         “It wasn’t about _you_ , Geo.  I know that’s hard to believe since the whole bloody world obviously revolves around you,” John twinkled.  “You have to try to understand.  We had these feelings for each other that we didn’t understand.  We could act on them physically, but we could not address them verbally.  We never did – not until the end, when we were bludgeoning each other with too _many_ words, all of them ugly.”  
  
         “Is that what it was all about?  Was that why you asked me to join forces with you against Paul on the business issues?”  George was realizing for the first time that John had never intended to be close to George; it had been about hitting back at Paul.  Period.   
  
         “The Beatles broke up for a thousand reasons, Geo.  You know that.  You had your own reasons for wanting to leave, and Ringo had his.  The only part Paul and I contributed to the mess was that our own personal relationship was going down the shitter at the time.  We can’t work together if we’re not friends; I think we’ve proven that for all time.  Our process depends on our friendship - our mutual emotional intimacy and dependence.  Without it, we couldn’t trust each other enough to even edit each other’s work.  We’d either be tearing at each other ruthlessly, or killing each other with false kindness.  It was bad, and it had to end.”   
  
         George nodded as John was speaking, hearing and feeling the truth of John’s words.  “Still,” he said, “it would have been nice if one or both of you had confided in me.”   
  
         John sighed, his impatience showing a little.  “It’s not all about _you_ , George!  I _couldn’t_ talk about it, and you know Paul!  When has _he_ ever shared his problems or private thoughts voluntarily with _anyone_?  Speaking for myself, I could barely even _think_ about it.  I was drowning myself in heroin and throwing myself into Yoko’s world in an attempt to block the pain and fear of losing Paul.  I was in no condition to be talking about it with _anyone_!  You’re just going to have to _accept_ that, because it’s the bloody truth!”  John’s voice rang in the air for a few seconds before silence regained its footing.  
  
         It was George’s turn to sigh heavily.  “Okay, I can accept that.  It’s weird though, to figure out after all these years that how I saw things at the time was completely distorted.”  
  
         “Well, that’s just the way it is in life, George.  Even _without_ mind-bending stuff like me and Paul being lovers.  I look back at how I interpreted various things when I was in my twenties and thirties and I just _wonder_ at how dense I was.  It happens to _all_ of us; you’re not immune.”  
  
         George nodded in agreement with John’s comment, and sat back in his chair, finally at ease.  He had said his piece, and now he was at peace.   
  
         “So, Ringo tells me you don’t want to attend the Rock ‘n Roll induction ceremony,” George said. He hoped John wouldn’t figure out that this was the main reason why he had stopped by that evening, unannounced.  
  
         “Do you _really_ want to start up all that Beatles reunion crap again?” John asked, with a truculent tone.  
  
         “They’re gonna go on about it anyway, no matter _what_ we do,” George pointed out quietly.  “I think it would be a nice way to finish the circle.”  
  
         “What ‘circle’ is this, then?” John asked sardonically.  
  
         “The Beatles’ circle.  I think it would be nice to end the whole thing gracefully, instead of leaving it with us all suing and snarling at each other.”  
  
         John gave George’s comment some consideration.  After a moment or two he responded, “I’ll give it some more thought.”  
  
         George nodded, realizing that this was the best he could hope for.  “And what about Paul?  Will _he_ attend?”   
  
         “He will, if I will,” John said simply.  George took that in, and tried not to smile at it.  _There they go again_ , he thought.  
  
         Just then they heard the back door slam, followed by the energetic sound of Paul taking the stairs.  
  
         “You always know when it’s Paul coming,” John remarked.  “He has his own rhythm, even in coming up the stairs.”  
  
         “Even when _pissing,_ ” George added, and the two men were chuckling mirthfully as Paul entered the room.  
  
         “Georgie!” Paul exclaimed, and rushed over to envelop the owner of that name in one of his famous, patented hugs.  George was once again reminded that Paul always hugged as if it were either the _first_ time he’d seen you in years, or as if he feared it would be the _last_ time he’d ever see you.  This never failed to endear Paul to George, however reluctantly George wanted to feel such endearment for Paul.  “What a surprise!  I didn’t know you were coming, or I would have left work earlier.”  
  
         “I didn’t plan it.  I just popped in,” George said.  “John and I have been chatting for a while.”  
  
         John said, “Paul, I’ve got dinner almost done.  George, will you eat with us?”  George nodded appreciatively at the offer, although still amazed that John was so… _domestic_.  Cooking dinner for his man!  Another blush stole on to George’s cheeks with that last thought.  
  
         Paul poured himself a drink, and sat down near George.  “To what do we owe the pleasure?” he asked, his whole warm and inviting attention on George.   
  
         This was yet another way in which Paul endeared himself to George.  When Paul was talking to you, it was as if no one else in the world existed for him at that moment.   “I came to find out why John didn’t want to attend the induction ceremony,” George said quietly.  
  
         “Oh, ummm,” Paul acknowledged.  “So what did John say?”  
  
         “He said he’d consider it.”   
  
         “That’s further than _I’ve_ got him so far,” Paul admitted ruefully, and laughed to show he was okay about being the odd man out.   
  
         George smiled back.  He felt real fondness for Paul.  How strange that he could feel this uncomplicated affection, now that he knew Paul’s secret.  Paul wasn’t perhaps the pillar of perfection that he, George, had thought he was.  Paul had a huge gaping weakness:  John Lennon.  Somehow, that made Paul more human, and more approachable to George.  
  
         “Does that mean you’re willing to attend, then?” George asked him.  
  
         “Of course.”  Paul waited a moment, and then thought about the business meeting he had just left.  “John Eastman just told me that your lawyer is making another demand on John and me about royalty distributions…”  
  
         “Let’s don’t talk about business,” George said curtly, trying to shut down the conversation.  
  
         “Why not?  It’s silly to talk through lawyers, when we’re sitting here across from each other, isn’t it?”  Paul had a challenging look in his eyes.  “It may be easier to do it through lawyers – you don’t have to look us in the eye – but don’t you think it would be more productive if we actually _talked_ about it without lawyers around?”  
  
         _That was Paul for you_ , George thought nastily.  _Just when you were feeling sympathy and affection for him, he would start to push his business agenda_.  George had no intention of discussing this with Paul, mainly because he didn’t really understand the legal argument or the financial analysis, and he was pretty sure that Paul _did_ understand them.  There would be no way he could hold his own in such a discussion with Paul.   
“ _Even so_ ,” George said stubbornly, “I don’t want to talk business with you or the others.  I had my lawyer mention it to Eastman, because you had a right to know that I’m thinking about suing you and John on this issue if we can’t resolve it by settlement.”  
  
         Paul sat back in exasperation, and an angry look stole across his face.  He was sick and tired of George’s financial lawsuits.  George had lost most of his money in the ‘70s because of Allen Klein.   Now he was deeply involved with a new manager, Denis O’Brien, and O’Brien’s default answer for George’s financial woes usually was “ _let’s sue John and Paul, they got the lion’s share_.”  Paul was so over being cast as a greedy villain, when all he’d ever asked for was his 25% share of the Beatles upon dissolution.  George was the one who kept suing and cross-suing for more and more of the royalty pie.  Apparently a 25% interest in the Beatles and a 100% interest in his Northern Songs were insufficient for George.  He felt he deserved a piece of the Lennon/McCartney pie as well.   Of course, he always couched it in terms of allegations that John and Paul had somehow arrogated unto their partnership assets and rights that should have, by right, gone to the Beatles partnership.  
  
         When John came in to tell them that dinner was ready, the two men were sitting silently in the sitting room, staring into space with glaring frowns on their faces.  _Oh crap_ , John thought. _Not again_. The two had an extremely volatile relationship.  They were literally like brothers, in turns laughing and loving, and then suddenly pushing and shoving.   
  
         “Come on you two,” John said bracingly.  “Scoop up your spirits, and let’s go eat.  No more pouting allowed.”  
  
         George said to John while glowering, “ _He_ started it.”  
  
         John shook his head.  Third formers.  That’s what they were like.   “I don’t _care_ who started it.  _I’m_ ending it!”  He turned to Paul and gave him an all-business stare.   
  
         Paul squirmed under the pressure of it.  He got up, and headed for the dining room, giving himself a pep talk to cheer up.  He was willing to, if George would.  But if George was going to continue to be a pill, so would he!  He was tired of catering to George’s impossible moods!  
  
         They sat across from each other at the table, each evincing a suspiciously strong interest in his plate of food.  
  
         “Oh for crap’s sake,” John said.  “Enough!  What’s eating you two?”  
  
         “George is suing us again,” Paul said grumpily.   
  
         “I’m simply asking for a fairer distribution between the record production and song rights.”   
  
         “He means _our_ song rights, John.  Apparently _his_ song rights are all his, but _ours_ are open to debate!” Paul snapped back.  
  
         “Stop!  I’m sorry I asked!”  John had banged his hand down at the table, and had both George’s and Paul’s attention.  “Paul, stop talking about business.  It is what it is.  We’ll let the lawyers sort it out.”  
          
         “That’s what _I_ said,” George sneered, giving Paul a victorious look.  
  
         “Well, _George_ ,” John drawled sarcastically, “maybe you could ease up on the lawsuit threats once in a while.  Maybe you can reduce them down to, say, once a year?  Just long enough so Paul and I can catch our breath once in a while?”  Paul snorted now, as George glowered at John.   
  
         John regained his dignity.  “Now.  I made dinner, and I want _someone_ to enjoy it, so let’s change the subject and act like grown ups for a change.”  
  
         Paul chuckled.  
  
         “ _What_?” John asked, glaring at Paul.  John then noted that George was smothering a laugh, too. “ _What?_ ” He glared at George.   
  
         “ _John Lennon, the Voice of Reason_ ,” Paul said in a fruity announcer voice.   
  
         “Never thought I’d see the day,” George agreed, laughing openly now.   
  
         “I see you’ve found a common enemy,” John responded with fake grumpiness.   _Well, at least they weren’t taking shots at each other any more_.  
  
         The rest of the evening, surprisingly, was quite enjoyable.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kids weigh in, and Paul freaks out.

         Christmas 1987 was a desultory affair for John.  For some reason, Paul and Linda had chosen to bring their family to Cavendish for Christmas, and Paul was staying there with them, instead of at Maida Vale with John.  John at least had Sean to keep him company, this year, and of course, they spent much of their time at Cavendish, where Linda would make sumptuous meals, and Sean and James would hang together doing whatever 12 - and 10 year-old boys do in the privacy of one of their rooms.  
  
         One afternoon while Paul and Linda were out Christmas shopping, he was sitting around the dining table having tea with Paul’s daughters Mary and Stella.  Mary was a beautiful, vibrant 18 year-old brunette with a soft, open heart, and Stella was a punkish, 16 year-old, red-headed spitfire.  John adored them both, and the feeling was mutual.  They were filling him in on the latest music and bands, the hip nightclubs and the happening restaurants.  
  
         “Mum and Dad didn’t want us growing up in London,” Mary was explaining, “because they think it is too ‘fast’ here.”  
  
         “Yeah, instead they buried us down in the country,” Stella groused.  
  
         “So how do you really feel about that, Stella?”  John asked, laughing at her expression – she had Paul’s ‘bitchface’ down pat.  
  
         “The kids in my school are always on my case,” she complained.  
  
         “Why is that?” John asked.  
  
         Mary answered for Stella, using more diplomacy.  “I always got along fine with them, but I was willing to overlook their sometimes thoughtless remarks.  Stella has more courage; she doesn’t stand still for it.”  There was pride in Mary’s eyes as she described her sister.  
  
         “What kind of thoughtless remarks?” John asked innocently.  
  
         “It’s hard being the child of a Beatle,” Mary said matter of factly.  “There’s envy and animosity.   They don’t know how to behave around you, so they act like they could care less or they make fun of it.”  
  
         Stella grumbled.  “They are always having a go at me,” she said.  “I got into a fight at school one time.  I beat the crap out of this girl who was trying to bully me.”  Stella met John’s eyes and her smile was evil.  “She doesn’t bully me any more.”  
  
         Mary looked fondly at Stella, and then turned to John.  “She was suspended for a whole week.”  
  
         “Fine with me.  Didn’t have to sit through those excruciatingly boring classes…” Stella commented _sotto voce_ , much to John’s quiet delight.  
  
         “Paul didn’t mention that to me,” John mused.  “How did he take it?”  
  
         Mary laughed.  “He had to punish her of course, but he was secretly proud.  I heard him bragging to my Uncle Michael on the phone.  He was saying, ‘ _Stella took her down_!’”  
  
         John and even Stella laughed at that.  And then Stella said, apropos of nothing, “I’m ending my school days in June.”  
         
         “You’re only 16!”  
  
         “I’ll be almost 17 then.  I’m interested in fashion.  I want to go work for a real tailor, and then go to fashion school.  I’m not taking my A-levels.”  
  
         John gazed at Stella’s crazy outfit, and said nothing.   
  
         “What about you, Mary?  You’re out of school already,” John asked.  
  
         “I’ve finally persuaded my parents to let me move to London.  I’m going to work for MPL, and live at Cavendish.”  Mary looked excited about her pending new grown up life, but John took  a deep swallow.  If Mary was going to live at Cavendish full time, what did that mean for him and Paul?  
  
         “So when is your album coming out?” Mary asked, changing the subject.  “I know you and Dad have been working on it forever.”  
  
         “We were going to release it next month,” John said easily.  “But then George released his album, and then the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame thing happened, so we’ve pushed it out until March.”  
  
         “I’ve only heard bits and pieces coming from Dad’s music room,” Mary said. “But what I’ve heard sounds fantastic.”  
  
         “Not exactly an objective vote, there,” John chuckled.  
  
         Just then Sean walked in, followed by James.  “Dad,” Sean said, “James and I are having an argument.”   John looked at James and saw a blank, emotionless face looking back.  John hated himself for thinking so, but James was a little …well… _strange_.  You could never tell what he was thinking, because he only ever showed that bland, expressionless face.  He might have looked like his father if he had any of Paul’s vitality, charm, or facial fluidity.        
  
         “What is the argument about?” John asked carefully.  
  
         “He doesn’t believe me when I say that Uncle Paul lives with you half the time.”  
  
         John felt as though the floor was falling out from underneath him.  He tried to becalm himself, and realized suddenly that all three McCartney children were staring at him with identical huge questioning McCartney eyes.  
  
         “Well, James, as you know, your Dad and I have been recording an album.  When you’re in Sussex in school, sometimes he is up in London, while we are working on our album.”  John presented the party line as innocently as possible.  “It is easier for him to stay with me when he is London.”  
  
         “I know _that_ ,” James said quietly, and then returned to a sullen silence.  
  
         “James doesn’t believe that you and Uncle Paul sleep in the same _room_ ,” Sean clarified.  
  
         “Sean!” John barked.  He was shocked that Sean had brought this subject up, and then irritated with himself that he had never thought that this might happen.  He looked around and saw that all three sets of McCartney eyes were watching him closely, their faces full of a combination of suspicion and confusion.  
  
         “When you are with us, Sean,” John said, mustering as calm a voice as he could, “Paul and I share a room, because you need your privacy.”  
  
         Sean said, “But...”  
  
         “Enough, Sean!  I don’t approve of you upsetting James that way!  You should know better!  He’s obviously going to take it the wrong way!”  
  
         Sean could see the anger and disapproval in his father’s eyes, and subsided.  
  
         John saw Sean’s surrender, and sighed inwardly with relief.  He turned to the girls, and then to James in turn.  “It’s nothing to your dad and me to kip together.  We had to do it all the time on the road, back in the Beatles.  We just believe the teenager deserves his privacy.”  
  
         Mary and Stella shared enigmatic looks with each other, but said nothing.  James, looking victorious, turned around and headed towards his upstairs bedroom.  “You coming, Sean?” he asked over his shoulder.  Sean was still staring in confusion at his father, but shrugged and reluctantly followed James out of the room.  
  
         “Kids,” John laughed, as he tried to share the joke with Mary and Stella.  “You never know what they’ll say next!”  
  


*****

       
         John didn’t know what he could possibly say to Sean – or Paul for that matter – about Sean’s little disclosure.  But he knew he really didn’t have a choice, because one of Paul’s kids would probably ambush him with it before too long.  So, that night, before he left for Maida Vale, he purposely led Paul to the music room on the pretext of playing something new he’d just thought of, and then told him about what had happened.  
  
         “It sounds like you handled it well,” Paul said, after his heart stopped beating like a drum.  “Thanks for that.”  
  
         “Yeah, I’ll talk to Sean, and try to straighten it out.”  
  
         “How’re you gonna do that?” Paul asked curiously.  
  
         “Not sure yet, but I’ll let you know.”  
  
         Paul was quiet for a moment as he chose his words.  “Do you think…well, James is one thing.  He’s still very young.  But do you think Mary and Stella believed you?”  
  
         John thought about their at first suspicious, and then ambiguous expressions, and wasn’t so sure of his answer.  He saw the anxiety in Paul’s face, and decided to err on the side of discretion.  “Yes, I think so,” he said, and watched the relief pass over Paul’s face.  
  
         “It’s all so fucking complicated,” Paul said, sighing.  And then he said no more.  John felt his pain, but didn’t have any answers for him, so they kissed each other goodbye, and Paul showed him to the door.  
  
         When John and Sean got back to the townhouse, Sean went to his room, and closed his door rather louder than he usually did.  John groaned, and went to knock on Sean’s door.  “Can I come in Sean?” he asked.  
  
         “Door’s not locked,” Sean said begrudgingly.  
  
         John opened it, and saw Sean leaning against the bed’s headboard, strumming a guitar.  John smiled.  That’s what John always did when he was upset, too.  
  
         “I want to talk to you about what happened this evening,” John said gently.  “I need you to understand a few things.”  
  
         Sean was watching John’s face intently, but he didn’t say anything.  
  
         “What you told James – I wish you hadn’t said that, and I don’t want you to say anything like that ever to anyone else, either.”  
  
         “Why not?  It’s _true_!”  Sean said resentfully.  
  
         John sighed.  “It’s complicated, Sean, and I’m going to try to explain it to you.”  John paused as he gathered his thoughts.  “I’m sorry I shouted at you in front of Paul’s kids, but I didn’t know any other way to protect them in that moment.”  
  
         “Protect them from _what_?” Sean asked, sincerely curious, but still a little pouty.  
  
         “They don’t know that their father and I, well, that we sleep together.  Paul doesn’t want to confuse or upset them, because he loves their mother, and he doesn’t want anything to come between him and his family that way.”  
  
         Sean was listening intently.  
  
         “Do _you_ have any questions about Paul and me?” John asked.  “I should have asked you about this sooner, but it is hard for me sometimes to realize how grown up you are becoming.”  
  
         Sean felt proud that his father was talking to him like a person with a brain.  He wound up his courage.  “When you sleep with Paul, is it, well, I mean…” Sean blushed because he couldn’t say the words.  
  
         “You want to know if we are lovers,” John said softly.  
  
         Sean nodded, still blushing, his eyes looking down at his hands.  
  
         “Yes, we are.  We have been for years.  But Paul loves Linda and his children even more than he loves me, and it is very important to him, and therefore it is important to me, that his family be kept separate from what goes on in this house.”   John stopped and watched Sean’s deflected face closely for signs of distress, but saw only a shyness there.  “Is this shocking to you Sean?  Does this upset you?  Do you need me to explain it better?”  
  
         “No, Dad, I knew about you and Paul.  I _always_ knew it.  I guess the part I didn’t know was why it had to be a secret.”  
  
         “Well, now you know,” John said sweetly.  He reached his hand out and gently brushed the bangs out of Sean’s eyes.  
  


*****

       
         By early January 1988, John had finally caved into pressure from all sides, and agreed to attend the induction ceremony at the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame.  He had almost dropped out again when he was told that fuckin’ _Mick Jagger_ was going to do the actual induction speech.   _Really_?  John would have preferred Chuck Berry to do it.  But Paul had told him to keep his cantankerous opinions to himself.  “You can thank him in your speech,” he said, while John glowered.  “Chuck Berry would probably spend the whole time talking about himself; that would hardly do at our induction.”  
  
         But days before the ceremony, George’s lawyer announced that he would be filing the lawsuit against John and Paul if they didn’t meet his settlement demand, and Paul hit the ceiling.  
  
         _Fuck that George and the horse he came in on!_ John was swearing to himself, while he was trying to calm Paul down.  
  
         “ _I’m not going!  I’m not going_!”  Paul was practically hysterical.  “ _He’s fucking with me_!  He’s doing this _deliberately_ to _fuck with me_!”  
  
         Nothing John said could calm him down.  In despair, John picked up the phone and called Linda in Sussex.  “Did you hear?” he asked her.  
  
         “Yeah, my brother just called to warn me.  Why’d George have to do this _now_?” she asked the world at large.  “He couldn’t wait until _afterwards_?  I suppose Paul is flipping out.”  
  
         “That’s putting it mildly!  He disappeared into the music room and slammed the door.  All I can hear is frantic piano pounding right now.  It’s frightening and angry enough to wake Beethoven up in his grave.  It’s echoing all over the house, and my head is pounding.”  
  
         Linda chuckled.  “Better yours than mine.”  
  
         “Hey now, that’s not nice.  You’ve gotta help me here.  Do you think you can talk him down?”  John asked.  “You’re much better at this sort of thing than I am, I’ve noticed,” he added.  
  
         Linda smiled into the phone.  “I will, but let him pound on the piano some more.  He’ll rant and rave all night, and all you have to do is agree quietly with everything he says, and by the morning he’ll stop venting.  Instead, he’ll be in a black funk.  I’ll try to talk to him then.  There’s some chance he might listen to me at that point.”  
  
          “I’m pretty sure he has made up his mind not to go to the induction ceremony because of this,” John said.  
  
         Linda’s exasperated sigh came over the phone line.  “Honestly.  He can be such a drama queen sometimes.”  
  
         John laughed appreciatively, despite himself.  
  
         “I will call in the morning, after the kids are in school,” Linda said.    
  
         “Why don’t I send him home to you?” John groused.  
  
         “Oh, how the tables have turned,” she laughed.  “It’ll be like _The_ _Ransom of Red Chief_ between us before long.”  
  
         John’s belly laugh somehow permeated Paul’s  
Mopeatorium, and he came out and shouted down the stairwell.  “John!  Who are you talking to?  It better not be George!”  
  
         “Or else what?” John shouted up the stairwell.  And then he said to Linda, “He just told me I’d better not be talking to George.”  
  
         Linda giggled.  
  
         “John!  Who is it!  I hear you laughing!  Are you laughing at me?”  
  
         “Did you hear that?” John whispered into the phone to Linda.  
  
         “No, what?”  
  
         “He asked me if I was laughing at him.”  
  
         Linda laughed out loud this time.   “Oh, he’s really in a bad place now.  I’ll ring off, and you can go calm him down.  Remember to agree with everything he says.  Talk to you in the morning.”  
  
         John soon heard a click and then the dial tone.  Shrugging, he started up the stairs where he soon met Paul, who was waiting on the landing and glaring at him.  “Who were you talking to just then!  I heard you _laughing!_ ”  
  
         “Am I not allowed to laugh when you’re in a bad mood, then?  Is that the rule?  Because I never heard that one.”  John was smiling teasingly as he said it, but Paul was still pouting.  “Come on, Paul,” John relented.  “I was just having a friendly chat with Linda.”  
  
         “Linda?  Why were you chatting with _Linda_?”  Paul’s face was deeply suspicious.  
  
         “We were discussing how difficult you can be at times like these, and she was giving me some advice on how to handle you.”  
  
         “That’s not the least bit funny, John!”  Paul was beside himself with fury.  First George betrayed him, and now both _John and Linda_!  “How dare you!  Linda is _my wife_!”  
  
         John felt stung by the comment, but reminded himself that Paul was feeling very raw at the moment.  “I’m your wife, too,” he said in a reasonable tone of voice, and then displayed a comical smile.  
  
         “ _What_?”  Paul gave him that wonderful bitchface that John loved so much.  “I keep telling you, it’s not funny!  I am so over George and his fucking lawsuits and his demands and his smug looks!”  
  
         “Come on, Pud, I know,” John said in a placating voice.  “He’s a jerk sometimes, and you’re right.  His timing couldn’t be worse.”  
  
         “ _Timing_!  What’s _that_ got to do with it!  There isn’t _any_ time that I would welcome this kind of shit!  And if he thinks I’m gonna stand next to him on some fuckin’ stage and act like we’re all pals, well – he’s got another think coming!”  Paul was shouting again, and then he turned on his heel and went back into the music room, slamming the door behind him.  Soon, John heard the sounds of a pounding piano again.  
  
         John sighed, and went down to their bedroom to prepare for bed.   As he was turning down the bedspread and fluffing the pillows, Paul stalked in.  
  
         “And another thing!” he shouted.  “I don’t want you ‘comparing notes’ with Linda any more!  My relationship with her is private!”  He waltzed out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.  
  
         John went in to the master bathroom, and brushed his teeth.  He thought about shaving in case Paul got horny, but then thought that was very unlikely, given the current state of affairs.  So he did his gargling, and climbed in to bed.  He grabbed a book from the side of the bed, and thought to himself, a _hhh…Saint Linda again. What a fuckin’ drag._  
  
         John fell asleep with the book open on his chest and the bedside light on.  When Paul came in the room, this is what he saw.  He had calmed down somewhat.  The anger had ebbed out of him, and now he was filled with insecurity, doubt, and a feeling of rejection.  No matter what he said, no matter what he did, George still hated him.  George still had to make a ‘go’ at him.  His helplessness had led to his tantrum, he knew, but he didn’t know how else to deal with it.  Sometimes it just got to be too much.  He didn’t understand what he had ever done or said to earn George’s hatred and contempt.   
  
         He stood at the side of the bed, looking down on John’s sleeping face.  He’d said some pretty harsh things to him about Linda.  He vaguely remembered that.  But John shouldn’t have crossed that invisible line – the precarious line that kept Paul’s two lives separate.  Paul wouldn’t be able to function if that line disappeared!  Didn’t John and Linda understand that?  Didn’t they know how hard it was for him to serve two life-mates, two lovers, two best friends?  He wouldn’t be able to do it if they ganged up on him.  
  
         Wearily, he went into the bathroom and did his bedtime ablutions.  He decided to take a hot shower, to calm down his prickly nerves.  He stripped off his clothes, leaving them in unseemly heaps on the floor, and listlessly stepped into the shower stall, leaning against the tiled wall in exhaustion as the water pounded down on his back, and the tears flooded down his face in a steady stream.  _Life was too fucking hard.   One step forward, and two steps back, over and over again.  Would it never end?  Would the bad blood never stop?_  
  
         Paul felt it descending on him.  The black cloud.  No one knew about the black clouds except Linda.  He had kept this secret from everyone else.  Sometimes they came down on him and threatened to overwhelm him, and he lost his appetite for life and wanted to get drunk on whiskey, get in bed, and pull the covers over his head forever.  He could feel this terrible burden descending on him again, and was powerless to stop it.  At times like these, any effort seemed impossible, and no dream felt even worthwhile, much less possible.  When the water turned cold, he finally bestirred himself, and stepped out of the shower.  He stood there, seeing himself in the mirror.  
  
         There he was.  His arms and shoulders had lost some of their youthful definition and muscularity, and his stomach was starting to look a little soft and pillowy.  Sometimes his legs looked like impossibly long and thin pins to him. There were lines around his eyes and mouth, and he noted – not for the first time – that jowls were forming under his chin.   He wasn’t really that attractive anymore, if he was being honest with himself.  He wouldn’t be surprised if John and Linda could joke about him together now because they neither of them held him in the kind of regard that they each once did, and didn’t covet his love anymore.  Without being a success in his chosen profession, and without even his looks to fall back on, who the hell was he?  What was he worth?  
  
         In this dark mood, Paul approached the bed.  He climbed in, and found himself perching on the edge of the left side of the bed, since John had settled in the middle.  Before getting in bed, he had put John’s book aside and turned off the light, and John didn’t even stir.  Paul turned on his side on the edge of the bed, and stared blankly into the darkness.  He wasn’t sure why George’s financial demands had hit him so hard this time, but he thought it was because it felt like a sucker punch.  George had come to talk them into attending the induction ceremony, and then, after winning their acceptance, he had thrown this last minute spanner into the works.  _Why_?  Whatever the reason, it had hurt Paul at his deepest and most vulnerable level.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter works to resolve a number of troubling issues, but we move ahead in McLen time, which means at their own damn pace. It ends with a slight plot twist. I hope you enjoy!

        Paul was already up, and the bed beside him was empty, when John awoke the next morning.  He felt Paul’s side of the bed and it was cold.  Did Paul not even come to bed last night?  The previous night’s events paraded through John’s memory, and he felt stricken by guilt.  He shouldn’t have teased Paul about his moods.  He should have followed Linda’s advice, and just agreed with everything he said.  
  
         This was a side of Paul that John didn’t like.  He didn’t like the over-the-top tantrums.  Thankfully, Paul didn’t do it often – in fact, this was the first time John had experienced one since 1970 - but John realized he had to learn to be more accepting and understanding of this side of Paul if he was really going to be a meaningful life partner to him. Moving slowly and groaning the whole time, John pulled himself up until he was sitting on the side of the bed.  Then he got up.  
  
         He found Paul in the sitting room, staring out the French doors, out to the balcony.  He was lost in some kind of reverie.  
  
         “Hey, babe,” he said softly, “Didn’t you come to bed last night?”  
  
         Paul turned to look at him, and John saw a bleak, despairing expression that he hadn’t seen on Paul’s face since – again – 1970.  Paul seemed to be digesting what John said, as if the words didn’t make sense at first, and then he turned back towards the balcony.  “I did.  I got up a few hours ago.  Couldn’t sleep any more.”  
  
         “Paul, you have to help me understand.  Why are you this upset?  It’s just George fucking with us a little.  He would say it isn’t personal, its business.”  
  
         “It’s personal to _me_ , and it always has been,” Paul mumbled.  “And George knows it.  That’s why he does it.”  
  
         “You really shouldn’t let him upset you this way.  It isn’t worth it,” John insisted.  “Just laugh it off, like Ringo and I do.”  
  
         Paul had no response to that.  How could he explain that his relationship with George was different than John’s or Ringo’s?  He and George had known each other forever, and had truly been best friends before John came along.  Paul had watched while George’s affections switch to John.  George hero-worshipped John, and suddenly Paul became irrelevant.  Ever since then, George had done whatever he could to be close to John, and to exclude Paul.  George hadn’t been successful at luring John away from Paul, and that had made him bitter.  But Paul didn’t understand why George blamed this on _him_.  It had been _John_ who had decided to keep George at arm’s length; Paul had nothing to do or say about it.  
  
         “Linda will be calling you this morning to see how you’re doing,” John said to Paul’s back.  
  
         He saw that Paul’s head nodded slightly in acknowledgement.  “Yeah, we talked already.  I called her.”  
  
         “How’d it go?”  
  
         “She said George was just being thoughtless, and he would be better off going to a psychiatrist than a lawyer.”  
  
         John laughed.  “Sensible woman,” he said.  “I’m going to make some breakfast.  You want some?”  John tried again.  
  
         “I’m not hungry right now,” Paul said.  Paul always lost his appetite when he was angry or upset.  Funny, it was when he was angry or upset that John had the hardest time controlling his own appetite!  
  
         Safe within the confines of the kitchen, John called Linda.  “Paul told me he spoke to you already.”  
  
         “Yes, he was very upset that you and I were talking about him last night.  He called it ‘comparing notes’, and he is very angry with us for doing it.  You shouldn’t have told him,” Linda said wisely.  
  
         “I know, but it’s too late now.  I was just trying to jolly him out of his mood.”  
  
         Linda decided to confide in John.  “John, there is no ‘jollying’ Paul out of one of his dark moods.  He just needs someone 100% on his side, who is willing to put up with it for as long as it lasts.”  
  
         John was silent for a long moment.  “What ‘dark moods’ are these?  I haven’t seen all that many from Paul over the years,” John said.  
  
         “That’s because you weren’t around him after the Beatles ended.”  Linda said succinctly.  
  
         “Oh.”  There was another awkward silence.  “Well, I take your point.  I’m gonna retrace my steps and start over with him,” John told her.  “It would be really stupid if he let this stop him from attending the ceremony.  George would have a field day with it, telling all the reporters what a sore sport Paul is.”  
  
         Linda groaned in acknowledgement that this was a likely result.  “Well, I’ll talk to him again later.  Hopefully, he will be in a better mood and more open to advice.”  
  
         “Thanks, Lin,” John said, inadvertently calling her what he’d heard Paul call her so many times.  On her end of the phone, Linda smiled at John’s slip of tongue.  One thing she could say about this whole sharing Paul with John thing was that her life was never boring!  


 

*****

  
  
       “I’m not going to the ceremony, John,” Paul said as he and John and contemplated their dinner plates around the table at Maida Vale.  “But you should go if you want to.”  
  
         “I’m not going if you’re not going!” John declared.  “The very idea of it!”  
  
         “I’m sorry, John, but it would be hypocritical for me to go, and pretend like everything was all great between us when it isn’t,” Paul said stubbornly.  
  
         “Paul, it’s four days from now.  Don’t make any precipitate decisions.  Let’s talk tomorrow, and we’ll see how we both feel about it.” John was trying to meet Paul’s eyes, but Paul was not cooperating.  His eyes were studying his plate, as he idly took stabs at the asparagus spears there.  John tried again.  “You’re giving George the opportunity to make you look foolish, Paul.  You should be the bigger man.  Why deny yourself this honor? Before the lawsuit talk you were very excited about this!”  
  
         Paul was eyeing John with suspicion.  Why was John being so gentle and non-judgmental?  Not at all like John’s usual direct and brutal style.  Still, what John said made a little sense.  Why leave the door open for George to get the last word?  
  
        

 

*****

  
        Paul and John were in bed.  It was deep in the early morning hours, and the bedroom was dark, except for the silver light coming in through the windows, casting shadows on their faces.  John was leaning over Paul, and was momentarily distracted by the beauty of Paul’s face lit by the silver light.  Paul’s greenish eyes seemed to gleam like a cat’s in the dark.  John’s hand was gently caressing Paul’s cheek, and then traced Paul’s mouth.  He finally spoke.  
  
         “You’re sad,” he said, simply, and without judgment.  
  
         Paul said nothing, but his eyes did not blink.  They were captured by John’s amber eyes.  
  
         “It’s okay to be sad,” John said softly.  “As Linda says, ‘it’s allowed.’”  
  
         This comment drew an involuntarily half-smile from Paul, but he was still silent.  
  
         “Speak to me,” John said softly, knowing full well that Paul hated to be pushed when he was in this mood, but realizing for the first time it was actually his _job_ to pry, since they weren’t just best mates and creative partners anymore – they were partners in life.  
  
         “I don’t know what you expect me to say,” Paul finally said, in a half-whisper.  Something about the sepulchral nature of the bedroom just then caused him to speak in a hushed voice.  
  
         “Just tell me what you're feeling,” John replied.  
  
         “I’m a bit sad, yeah,” Paul admitted, doubtful about the whole line of questioning.  
  
         Inwardly, John sighed, without letting it show on the outside.  This was heavy sledding.  _Patience, John_!  “So _why_?  What is making you sad?”  
  
         “This whole thing with George…”  
  
         “It can’t just be that, Paul.  We’ve all been down this road with each other before.  You sued the three of us, then we all sued you, and I sued you, and then the three of us sued Klein, and then George sued us…”  
  
         “And sued us and sued us…”  
  
         John laughed.  “He only sued us once; the rest were threats.”  
  
         “Only because we always settle with him.  He keeps coming back to the well, and it hurts me on a personal level that he does it.”  
  
         “I think he does this to us because he is bitter about his songs not making it to the albums, you know,” John said in a neutral tone of voice.  “I don’t think this is consciously why he does it, but I’m pretty sure that’s his subconscious motive.”  
  
         Paul was quiet as he absorbed this observation.  He finally spoke.  “I never thought of it that way; it makes sense.”  
  
         “He always felt left out,” John added.  
  
         Paul’s eyebrows moved inward and down, his face suddenly the picture of perplexity.  “But he and you spent a lot of time together, and he and I spent a lot of time together, and all three of us spent a lot of time together.  He was always there with us.”  
  
         “It wasn’t our physical presence that he felt deprived of; it was our emotional and creative connection.”  
  
         Paul nodded slowly in reluctant agreement but did not respond verbally.  
        
         “What else?”  John asked in a businesslike tone that brooked no denial.  
  
         “What else what?”  
  
         “What else is making you sad?”  
  
         “What  makes you think there’s something else?”  
  
         “Because I’ve seen you deal with George’s machinations hundreds of times, and your reaction this time was totally out of proportion.  There’s more to it, and I’m asking you what it is.”  
  
         Paul’s face reflected honest confusion.  “If there is something else, I don’t know what it is.”  
  
         “Is there something about me bothering you?” John asked bluntly.  
  
         “No!” Paul responded.  
  
         “It’s not still the Nigel thing…?”  
  
         “No – no …”  
  
         “Linda?  Your kids?”  
  
         Paul was surprised when he felt a strum of stress race through him at the mention of his family.  Could John be right?  Could it be true that he was worried about something else; something to do with his family?  If so, he didn’t know what it was.  It was an amorphous anxiety - like someone was plucking at his nerves as if they were guitar strings.  “Nooo," Paul said, his voice far from certain.  "There’s nothing else.”  
  
         John was skeptical, but Paul was either telling the truth, or he didn’t know what was motivating his mood.  No point in beating a dead horse, so to speak.  He sighed and flopped back on to his pillow, but he grabbed Paul’s hand, and gently massaged it with his thumb.  
  
       

 

*****

  
        It was a last minute thing, but all four Beatles showed up for the induction ceremony on January 22, 1988.  Ringo was more than a little drunk, and George was quietly confident.  Paul was convinced that every time George smiled he was being “smug”.  John stuck by Paul’s side whenever George was around, praying that there wouldn’t be any embarrassing outbursts backstage, during the ceremony itself, or at the party afterwards.  Paul, it seemed, was on his best behavior.  You could always count on that when the public was involved.  Paul had been raised by his mother to never make a scene, and to never let others see him emoting, so he did a credible job of looking pleased to be there.  John found himself on a number of occasions looking at George, and wondering if George had any idea of the roller coaster ride he’d sent Paul on.  Probably not.  While Paul thought George did it on purpose, John thought that George never gave it a thought.  George would probably be very surprised to find out about Paul’s extreme reaction to his lawsuit threat.  
  
         Whatever George’s motivations were with respect to the financial issues, he certainly seemed to be genuinely touched by the outpouring of affection for the Beatles, and when they all strapped on their instruments to play _I Saw Her Standing There_ – accompanied by many other rock stars (John, Paul and George had all insisted on that; they didn’t want it to look like a Beatles reunion) – everyone seemed, on the surface at least, to be having a good time and to be on good terms.  


 

*****

  
  
        After the show, there was a huge party in the Waldorf Ballroom in New York City.  Everyone who was someone in the music world was there.  John found himself swept up into one set of friends after the other as the evening whirled past him.  He lost track of Paul completely, and, when he had finally looked around in search of him at midnight, Paul had seemingly vanished.  Sean had been standing next to John through most of the festivities, proud of his father and excited by all the doings.  But Julian was banging around somewhere, probably flirting with girls.  John and Sean went to track him down.  
  
         “Have you seen Paul?” John asked, when they finally found him.  
  
         “Yeah, he and his family left over an hour ago.  They went back to their rooms,” Julian said.  
  
         John heard the news, but also felt the weight of it hitting him like an anvil falling from the sky above.  It shouldn’t have surprised him.  Of course, Paul would go home with his family.  But it had been a _Beatles_ night.  It had been about _their_ dream, _their_ success, and now he – John - would be spending the night alone.  
  
         “Well, let’s get back to our rooms, guys,” John said to his two sons, and the three of them went up in the elevator to their floor.  They had adjoining rooms – Julian and Sean in one double bedroom, and John in his room with a king-sized bed:  a big, empty, _cold_ king-sized bed.  
  
         John left his sons to their own devices; they had ordered up some food from room service and were busy watching a late night action movie on TV.  He wandered back into his bedroom, and sat on the bed quietly for a few moments, hearing the clock tick.  _Fuck this_ , John thought.  _I’m going down to the bar to see who’s hanging out there_.   He stuck his head back in the boys’ room and said, “Julian, I’m going down to the bar to hang with a few friends.  Keep an eye on Sean for me.”  Julian nodded wordlessly, already wrapped up in the movie.  
  
         The bar was filled with rock ‘n rollers and their entourage members.  He saw a few people he knew, and they all were beckoning him over to join them.  He gave them all a ‘just a moment’ gesture and headed for the bar, where he ordered two fingers of the oldest scotch they had, and then wandered over to a table where Jackson Browne, David Bowie, and Mick Jagger were seated.  He slid into a booth next to Bowie.  
  
         “How in the world are you, David?” John asked as he took a sip of his whiskey.  
  
         “I’m good.  Proud to be here with you.”  
  
         “Nice of you to say.”  
  
         “No, really.  It’s an honor.”  
  
         John smiled and offered his drink up for a toast.  “To Me!” he declared hilariously, and they all laughed and toasted him.  
  
         “So where’s your better half?” Mick asked in his slouchy voice.  
  
         “Sean?” John asked, willfully misunderstanding.  “He’s tucked up in bed, watching things explode.”  
  
         “I meant Paul, of course,” Mick said with exaggerated slowness.  
  
         “Oh, he’s tucked up in bed with Linda, _making_ things explode,” John chuckled.  Mick gave him a funny look, but John stared him down.  
  
         It was while on his second whiskey that Bowie said to him, _sotto voce_ , “Remember back in ’74 when I asked you if you wanted to make it with me?  You told me you loved Yoko too much.”  
  
         John looked sharply at Bowie with watery eyes.  He was a little drunk and warning bells were going off in his ears.  John decided to play dumb.  “Did I?” he asked.  
  
         “Yeah.  And now there’s no Yoko,” Bowie said in a flirtatious tone of voice.  
  
         “I’m sorry, David.  I’m just not into it,” John finally said, gently.  
  
         “Really?  I heard rumors that you and Paul…”  
  
         “They are _rumors_.  You should know about rumors by now.”  John was forcing his face to look calm and unconcerned.  
  
         “What I’ve learned is that rumors often have some truth to them,” Bowie responded.  “Hey, look, I wouldn’t blame you.  Paul is gorgeous.   I have always had the hugest crush on him.  I used to make drawings of him while I was supposed to be doing my schoolwork.”  
  
         John chuckled.  “Paul has a lot to answer for.  You’re no doubt not the only one who was dreaming of him instead of studying.  Me included.”  
  
         Bowie smiled and said, “I wouldn’t have the nerve to ask Paul to give it a whirl,” he admitted.  “There is something a little detached and intimidating about him.”  
  
         “He would be nice to you about it, David, but he’d turn you down.  He’s not into it either.  You wouldn’t be the first.  Pete Townshend has had a go at him a number of times, among many others.”  He gazed across the table to where Mick was engaged in a serious discussion with Jackson Browne.  “And Mick was after him like crazy in 1967.  Every time I turned around, there was Mick, following Paul around with his mouth hanging open.”  
  
         Bowie laughed.  “I had a fling with Mick,” Bowie said cheerfully.  
  
         “I know that, David, and so does everybody else in the whole bloody world.  You were hardly discreet about it.”   
  
         “My wife Angie caught us going at it one day.  It was one of the straws that broke that marriage’s back.”  
  
         John thought about it a moment.  “Still.  That had to be something: to walk in on you two fucking.  I wouldn’t mind seeing that myself.”  He thought about it some more and said, “I did walk in on Mick and Keith in bed together once at a party in the sixties,” John said.  “And I immediately got the hell out of there.  I don’t think they saw me.”  
  
         Bowie laughed and said, “Well, if you ever change your mind…”  
  
         John completed the sentence by singing, “ _’bout leaving me behind…bring it to me, bring your sweet lovin’, bring it on home to me-e-e…_ ’” Bowie joined in for the chorus.  
  
         Mick looked up at them with a curious and then a suspicious look on his face.  
  
         About an hour later, John found himself alone at the table with Mick.  John was on his third drink, but Mick didn’t appear to be drinking much.  He had something on his mind, and he was looking at John as if he were sizing him up.  
  
         “ _What?_ ”  John growled.  “Spit it out, whatever it is!”  
  
         “You and Paul…”  
  
         “Oh no, not you too,” John whined.  “Bowie was on about it a while ago.  The answer is:  No.”  
  
         Mick looked relieved.  John noticed it.  He said teasingly, “Yes, the coast is clear for you and Paul…”  
  
         Mick frowned.  “Oh, I gave up on Paul years ago.  He’s hopelessly straight.  I never really believed those rumors about you and him, because, frankly, all of us back in the ‘60s used to love to shock Paul with our bisexual flirting and cross-dressing performances.  It was so fun to watch him reacting to it.  He is just not open to that kind of experimentation, poor boy.”  
  
         John said nothing, but whirled his whiskey around in its glass for a while.  
  
         “It’s _you_ I’m curious about now,” Mick said.  “It’s been years since you left Yoko.  Are you interested in getting it on?”  
  
         John could not believe he had just received his second come on of the night.   Why had he suddenly become so popular?  John considered Mick’s proposition for a moment, but not seriously.  The whole thing was too incestuous.  He smiled at Mick and said, “Very flattering – the offer, that is.  But no, I’m not into it either…”  
  
         Mick looked sideways at John for a moment and then said, “I could have sworn…”  
  
         “No.  Sorry.”  John gave him one of his goofy closed-mouth smiles, and then added, “But I’ll buy you another drink.”  
  
         The bar was emptying out, and John had moved over to a corner booth and was sadly contemplating his fourth whiskey.  He was thinking of Paul, all warm and cuddly and wrapped up in Linda’s arms, and it was hurting his heart.  
  
         “John?”  He heard the soft voice as if it had drifted out of a dream.  He brought himself back to reality, and focused on the owner of the voice.  “It’s me, May,” she said.  
  
         “May?” John asked, and then his face broke out in a full grin.  “ _May_!  I haven’t seen you in – years!  What are you doing _here_ , of all places?”  
  
         “I was invited to the show, and I’ve been over there on the other side of the bar working up my nerve to come over and talk to you all night.”  May’s long black hair was still shiny, and she was still wearing granny glasses, although she was not quite as slender as she once had been.  
  
         “Sit down, May.  Let me buy you a drink.”  He waved the waitress over and soon his attention was back on his former lover.  “How have you been?”  
  
         “I’ve been okay.  I’m working in the record business still, and I’ve got a boyfriend.  We’re on and off, but I’m okay with it.  And you?  What have you been up to since you left Yoko?”  
  
         “I’m living in London, and for the last 18 months or so I’ve been working with Paul again.  We’re working on an album.”  
  
         “Really?  That’s _great_!  I always wanted you to do that – you two are perfect compliments for each other, creatively.”  May waited a strategic moment before asking the loaded question.  “And is there a woman in your life?”  She tried to make her face look as though she could care less about the answer.  
  
         “No,” John said, “no special woman.”  
  
         May mewed as though this was disappointing news.  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said softly.  
  
         “Why?  I’m okay with it.  I’ll never marry again.  I’m not cut out for it.”  John was slurring his words because of the whiskey, but he was more in control of his thoughts than he usually was when he was this drunk.  
        
         “Marriage isn’t for everyone,” May agreed.  “I’m not cut out for it either.”  
  
         John regarded her for a few long moments, and soon a spark was flaring in his eyes.  “So, May, have you got a room in this fucking hotel?”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two of them lifting latches...

         The morning after the induction ceremony, every one involved woke up with a hangover.  Paul and Linda less so, because they had retired to their rooms at the gentile hour of 11 p.m., and after getting all the kids to bed, had slipped into bed together themselves, and quickly fell into a passionate embrace.  
  
         God, Paul loved her.  He loved her in a way that was hard for him to describe.  He loved John wildly and almost against his better judgment, but Linda was so easy and natural to love. And after such a relatively circumspect night at the ceremony, when the morning came, they were chipper and clear-headed, even if the champagne was leaving its usual _thud-thud-thud_ reminder behind in their separate brains.  
  
         Julian and Sean, being 24 and 12, respectively, slept late.  Julian was hung-over, but Sean was just a 12 year-old boy who loved to sleep in late.   Neither of them knew that their father had not returned to his room the night before, and was not in his bed even now, as the pale morning brightened into noon.  
  
         John awoke as if he was surfacing from underneath the ocean.  His head was pounding like nobody’s business, and then he felt a warm body next to his.  But it was a woman’s body.  The night before flashed past him.  This time he remembered – May Pang.  He had even remembered to use the fucking condoms he’d found in the hotel’s mini-bar.  Paul would be proud of him, even though May had nearly died of shock at John’s insistence on using one.  Birth control had always been _her_ problem back when they had their affair in the ‘70s, and this was a new and more modern John! And really, she was almost at the age when a woman no longer had to worry too much about getting pregnant.  
  
         Groaning, John finally was able to open one eye, and quickly shut it again in reaction to the bright light.  He heard a female’s giggle.  He slowly opened his eye again and this time let it adjust to the light.  May was watching him, leaning on her side with her face in the palm of her hand.  Her glasses were on her face, and she was grinning at him.  
  
         “Hello, stranger,” she said.  
  
         John groaned again, and slowly shifted his lower extremities.  His head was killing him.    “Did I manage to pull it off?” John asked, his voice hoarse.  
  
         “Oh yeah, condom and all.”  
  
         John smiled at her.  “I’m proud of that fuckin’ condom, so don’t give me a hard time,” he said.  
  
         “Oh no – I’m amazed and impressed by it.”  
  
         “It’s really great to see you again,” John said sincerely.  “I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed you until I saw your face.”  
  
         May blushed with pleasure, and said, “Me too.”  She then said, “You want to order breakfast?”  
  
         John struggled to sit up, groaning as his head pounded away relentlessly.  “ _Breakfast!_ What time is it?  _Noon_?  I almost forgot!  My sons are alone in my suite.  I have to go and make sure they’re okay, and get them some breakfast.”  
  
         May tried not to show her disappointment, and John didn’t notice it.  But he did say, as he dragged his naked body up so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and as he then tried to catch his trousers with his feet so he wouldn’t have to bend over, “You wanna come with?  We can all have breakfast together.”  
  


*****

  
  
        John and May had barely made it into John’s room when the phone rang.  John answered it.  
  
         “Hey mate!”  It was Paul’s cheerful voice on the other end.  John flinched with the sound of it, because his head was still aching.  
  
         “Hey,” John responded, in a less than enthusiastic voice.  
  
         “The family’s just got back from brunch.  What are you up to?”  
  
         “I’ve just gotten up, and I’m about to wake the boys.  We haven’t eaten yet.”  
  
         “Well, give me a call in my room when you’ve finished, sleepyhead,” Paul said cheerfully.  “Ringo’s coming over in an hour or so, and I thought we could all just hang out for a bit.”  
  
         John hung up and made a comical face for May, who giggled.  “He’s so fuckin’ full of energy,” John said.  “Sometimes I want to throttle him.”  
  
         John had waited while May had showered and changed in her room, and now she waited while John did the same.  Then he opened the connecting door into the boys’ room, and she heard him opening shades and making encouraging sounds to his sons, to wake them up.  She smiled with a kind of pleased surprise, because she had never seen John being this responsible about parenthood, having never witnessed his relationship with Sean firsthand.  
  
         A few hours later, the four of them had acquainted themselves with each other, and had finished a pleasant brunch via room service.  John then called Paul’s room, and was invited up.  John brought May along with his sons.  It might surprise Paul a little, but maybe Paul needed to remember that he shouldn’t take John’s love for granted.  In any case, it ought to be interesting.  Both Linda and Paul had met May a few times, so she wasn’t going to be a complete stranger to them.  
  
  


*****

  
  
        The McCartney suite was alive with laughter, music, and clamoring conversation.  Of course it was.  Wherever Paul went, Life Over the Top followed.  John entered the suite followed by May Pang, Sean, and Julian.  They stood in the entrance way for a while, getting their bearings, before Linda noticed them.  She came rushing over.  
  
         “ _May_!  May!  It’s been _ages_!”  Soon May was lost in a huge mothering hug.   Linda pulled away, and then said, “How lovely that John has thought to bring you!”  Linda then turned to John and said, “Where did you find her?”  
  
         John explained how they’d run into each other in the bar, while Sean and Julian moved into the suite, and began looking for their friends and some refreshments.  
  
         “Paul and Ringo are in the other room,” Linda said with a warm smile.  “Why don’t you go thru, John, and May and I can catch up with each other.”  
  
         John nodded, and then moved through a connecting door, and soon found Paul and Ringo sitting on a half-oval sectional sofa, laughing and talking with a number of well known session musicians.  Trust Paul to befriend and associate with musicians, rather than with stars.  That was his preference, and it always had been.  
  
         Later, when May and Linda joined the men, Paul did not outwardly appear to be discomfited by May’s sudden appearance.  He had greeted and hugged her in his open way as though it were the most natural thing in the world for her to walk in the room.  Soon, the three ex-Beatles were joking and comparing notes with the musicians.  
  
         Ringo suddenly said, “It’s too bad George isn’t here, it doesn’t seem right that he’s not.”  
  
         John stole a quick concerned look at Paul, but noted that Paul’s expression did not change.  Instead, Linda spoke up.  
  
         “Well, for heaven’s sake, you’re right!  Do you know where he’s staying?”  Linda was looking to Ringo and Barbara for a clue, and Barbara said she knew and would call Olivia.  Through it all, Paul remained pleasantly quiet, and John periodically shot worried looks in his direction.  John felt a little envious of Linda.  He knew if _he_ had suggested calling George, Paul would have reacted negatively to it.  But since it was Linda’s idea, Paul apparently had no problem with it.  
  
         Paul, meanwhile, had worked his way through his anger over the threatened lawsuit.  It had been an effort of will, but he wasn’t the kind to hold grudges for long; he did not have a resentful nature.  He had decided to let it go.   He wouldn’t have been the one to suggest George’s attendance, nor would he be the one to invite him, but he had no problem if one of the others did.  
  
         George and Olivia were able to drop by later in the evening, intending to make a brief appearance for politeness’s sake.  George knew a little about Paul’s reaction to his business moves, having heard about some of it through the Beatle grapevine, and he thought that perhaps his presence would make the atmosphere awkward, yet it seemed rude not to show up at all since the invitation was coming from Ringo.  By the time they showed up, the mood was very mellow, since pot – the great leveler – had been passed around constantly for several hours by then.  Paul didn’t seem the least bit awkward, giving George his usual big sloppy hug.  George couldn’t sense even a little hostility from Paul.  He smiled to himself.  Pot was the perfect drug for Paul.  It acted like a sedative on Paul, who was normally very tightly wound and energetic.  
  
         It was a good thing that Paul had been imbibing the pot rather heavily, because as the afternoon melted into evening, John and May had begun to get very touchy-feely, and it was mainly John leading the “PDA” bandwagon, frequently grabbing and touching May in openly sexual ways.  Linda noticed this, and had mixed feelings.  She was of course glad that John might have found someone else to cling to, so as not to drag home any more questionable club conquests, but also worried if it was going to end up being hurtful to Paul.  But, as the evening progressed, she snuggled in with Paul and gave him a great deal of physical affection, and she began to hope that May was just what the doctor ordered for the continued sanity of their little ménage.  
  
         That night, after Julian left for the airport to head back to England, May stayed with John again in the hotel suite, although Sean had started to eye her with suspicion and distrust.  “I don’t think Sean likes me,” she told John once they were alone.  “He keeps glaring at me.”  
  
         “Really?  I didn’t notice,” John said, genuinely surprised.  
  
         “Do you think he thinks I’m trying to replace his mother?”  
  
         John frowned.  “He’s all over the divorce, you know.  That was 5 years ago.  I think you’re just imagining it.”  
  
         But the next morning, after May had gone home and John was helping Sean pack, Sean spoke up.  
  
         “Why was _she_ around?” He blurted out, glaring at his father.  
  
         “May?  She’s a friend of mine – an old friend of mine.”  
  
         “You slept with her.”  Sean was matter-of-fact and angry.  
  
         “Sean, yes, I did, but it really isn’t any of your concern,” John said sternly.  
  
         “What will Paul say?”  Sean’s expression was accusatory.  
  
         John stopped what he was doing and stared at his son.  “Paul?”  
  
         “Yeah, why are you doing this to Paul?”  
  
         “I’m not doing anything to him,” John said, bewildered.  
  
         “Does he know about _her_?”  Sean persisted.  
  
         “Sean, this isn’t any of your business.  Paul is fine.  He can take care of himself.”  
  
         Sean made a _harrumph_ kind of sound as if to say, _I hope you know what you’re doing_ , and finished packing his things.  He dropped the conversation, but obviously not his opinion on the matter.  
  
         John also continued to think about what Sean had said.  He didn’t want to upset Sean with his admittedly less than normal lifestyle any more than he already had done, and since he had no intention of running off with May or any other woman, in the future it would be best, he decided, not to expose Sean to his extra-Paul affairs.  Yet another criteria to add to his list:  women only, not at home, not when he was blotto drunk, always with a condom, only when Paul was with Linda, and, now – only when Sean was with Yoko.  It was getting to be a very long, and very inconvenient list.  
  
  


*****

  
        
         Later that day, Paul was taking his family to the airport while John and Sean moved their things back into the loft across the park from the Dakota.  John had not been back to the loft in over four years, and so he wandered around arranging things so they felt more comfortable and homey.  The cleaning crew had come through earlier and swept up all the cobwebs and aired out all of the linens, and John left the windows open for a few hours to get the staleness out of the air, even though it was quite cold outside.  Later, he closed them and started the gas fire to warm the place up again.  
  
         Upon arrival, Sean had gone straight to his bedroom, and started to set up the new personal computer John had bought him.  John’s personal assistant was helping Sean configure it.  
  
         Meanwhile, John felt a bit at a loose end, as he waited for Paul to get back from the airport.   It suddenly occurred to him that he was right across the park from the Dakota – and he wondered if his old friends Jason and Gerry still lived there.  Curious, he pulled his Rolodex out of a cupboard where it had been stored, and looked for their old telephone number.  Finding it, he decided to just give in to his urge and dial.   
  
  


*****

  
  
        Across the park, it was a quiet Sunday afternoon, and Gerry was relaxing in his easy chair with his pipe and the Wall Street Journal.  Jason was banging around in the kitchen, putting away the groceries that had just been delivered.  He’d spent the morning reading a book that he was reviewing for the New York Times, and was happy for a break so he could move around a bit.  He was rinsing off the fruit when the phone rang, causing irritation, because now he would have to stop what he was doing, dry his hands, and make a mad dash for the phone.  
  
         “Hello?” He answered, his voice breathless and only just a tad irritated.  
  
         “Jason, is that you?”  A voice asked.  
  
         At first Jason couldn’t place the voice.   “Yes, who’s this?”  
  
         “It’s me, John.”  
  
         Jason thought furiously:  John.  John.  _John!!!!_ “Oh my God _John_!” he shouted joyfully into the receiver.  “I watched the induction ceremony on the television the other night – it looked like a blast!”  
  
         John gave himself a theoretical smack on the forehead.  “I should have invited you two!  I’m sorry I didn’t think!” John cried out in response.  “I would have enjoyed it so much more if you had been there.”  
  
         Jason was pooh-poohing John’s guilt.  “Don’t be silly.  Gerry and I aren’t rock ‘n roll types.  And Gerry would have complained of headache halfway through.”  
  
         John laughed out loud with unmitigated joy – he was so happy just hearing Jason’s voice.  Why hadn’t he called Jason before?  He had a telephone in London for Christ’s sake!  He’d often sat down to write a letter to Jason, but never quite managed to finish one, or put one in the mail.  Life kept intruding.  
  
         “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch,” John said, honestly feeling guilty.  
  
         “I didn’t expect you to be, John,” Jason said softly.  “You’ve got a very full life – dozens of friends - a lot of complicated things on your plate…” Jason didn’t know how to ask the question.  Of course he had seen Paul with John at the induction, but only when they accepted their awards, and Linda and her children had been in the audience loudly cheering Paul on.  Jason hadn’t heard a single whisper in the press or amongst his gay friends in the New York music industry of rumors about John and Paul.  He had worried for some time that the John-Paul-Linda thing had not worked out.  
  
         “I’m not so busy that I couldn’t have given you a call,” John said glumly.  “I’m just a bad friend.  I always have been.  My friends have always had to come to me, I have never reached out first.”  
  
         _Except for that once with Paul_ , Jason said to himself, but not out loud.  He cleared his voice.  Might as well get it out of the way.  “So how’s Paul?”  Jason held his breath, hoping that the answer would not be heartbreaking.  
  
         “He’s great.  He’s dropping his family off at the airport, and then he’ll be back here.  We’re staying in the loft for a few days while we get some business done.  It occurred to me that we should all get together.”  
  
         Jason felt tremendous relief course through him.  Who knew?  Apparently somehow they had managed to make the strange situation work out, against all odds.   “That would be lovely!  When do you think?”  
  
         “ _Now!  This evening_!  Why not?” John’s voice was vibrating with enthusiasm.  Having foregone Jason’s friendship with apparent complacency for over four years, suddenly John couldn’t wait a moment more to see and touch him.  
  
         Jason was laughing out loud at John’s boyish reaction.  “I think that will be great.  We’re not doing anything.  I suppose we should go to you, given the…”  
  
         “Yeah…the Yoko thing...still awkward.  Anyway, hurry over!  I have so much to tell you!”  
  
         Jason rang off, his heart beating with excitement, and then he shouted “Gerry!” as he rushed around finishing up putting the groceries away.  
  
         “ _What_?”  Gerry shouted from the sitting room.  
  
         “Come _here_!  I’m putting things away!  I have to tell you something!”  
         
         Gerry was aggravated.  He worked all week, and here he was trying to relax on a nice Sunday afternoon, and people kept calling them and ringing their doorbell and interrupting their nice quiet time, and Jason kept bustling about, and now Jason was making him get up and move… Grumbling, Gerry finally joined Jason in the kitchen, and leaned against a doorjamb.  
  
         “Ok, what’s so all-fired important?” Gerry asked, his arms crossed, and his eyebrows quizzical.  
  
         “That was John Lennon on the phone,” Jason said.  
  
         “ _John?”_ Gerry’s whole attitude changed from irritated and cranky to excited and interested.  
  
         “He’s invited us over to the loft for the evening – and I’ve accepted.  So go get presentable, and then pick a few bottles of wine.  I’m packing up these chocolate covered coffee beans and some lovely figs…” Jason kept chattering as he packed some goodies to go, and Gerry (trying to appear nonchalant) made his way to the bedroom to change clothes.  Despite his calm mien, he was really extremely excited.  He had always immensely enjoyed John’s company, and the ‘buzz of extraordinary’ that seemed to hover over John like a sparkling aura.  John was an extremely charismatic person, and Gerry was secretly one of his biggest fans.  
  
         As they walked across the park, carrying a lovingly packed picnic basket, Jason filled Gerry in on his brief conversation with John.  
  
         “So, they’re still together?” Gerry asked, obviously surprised.  
  
         “Apparently so.”  
  
         Gerry was genuinely surprised.  He had been doing probate and estate planning law for almost three decades now, and he had seen the kind of internecine infighting that went on when people who purportedly loved each other had to divide up the spoils.  In John’s awkward situation, Paul was the “spoils”, and Gerry had thought the whole thing would go terribly wrong in short order.  Plus, he had always felt that Paul was far less invested in John than John was in Paul.  He no longer thought Paul was stupid, but he still wondered how…well… _subtle_ Paul’s mind was, in an intellectual way.  Gerry doubted it was really subtle enough for John, and part of him was surprised that John had not lost interest in Paul by now.  Beauty is one thing, but it _does_ tend to fade as the years go by, whereas a subtle mind lasts forever.  
  
         Gerry finally said, “See, I never thought that arrangement could work.”  
  
         “Me either,” Jason agreed, feeling guilty as he said so, as if he were somehow betraying John.  “I was frankly amazed by it.”  Then Jason laughed.  “Shows how much _we_ know.  It all seemed so improbable.”  
  
         “It still does,” Gerry mumbled.  
  
         Soon they were ringing the loft’s doorbell, and moments later the door flew open and John was there with his arms wide open.  
  
         “ _My boys_!” he shouted joyfully.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Visit with Gerry and Jason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interesting topic arose during the discussion of Chapter 24 involving Gerry's distrust of Paul. We were saying how strange it is that people still insist on saying that Paul is stupid or dotty even with everything he has produced, contributed and accomplished in his life. Today's questions, should you choose to accept them, are:
> 
> 1) Do you think that the "Paul is stupid" motif is something that the Baby Boomers have because of the trauma of the Beatles break up? In other words - is this something that the younger generations believe, too?
> 
> 2) Why - in your opinion - do otherwise intelligent people continue to believe that Paul is, well, shallow?

        John looked fantastic.  He was no longer skeletal – he was at least 15 pounds heavier, and the color in his skin was much healthier than either Jason or Gerry remembered.  His eyes sparkled and his hug (he enveloped them both simultaneously) was fierce and warm.  
  
         “I’m so bloody happy to see you guys!” John enthused.  “I don’t know _wh_ y I haven’t made this happen sooner!  Come in…come in… _Sean_! Gerry and Jason are here!  Come out and say hello!”  
  
         Jason and Gerry stepped into the familiar hallway and then into the open plan sitting room.  They noted the cozy gas fire blazing in the hearth, and smelled something very delicious coming from the kitchen area.  A moment later a slightly rebellious looking near-teenager was lumbering towards them down the hall.  _Good heavens!  Was that little Sean_? It had been over 10 years since that fateful day in the elevator when Jason had introduced himself to John, with Sean in the stroller.  
  
         After a few understated hugs and a brief hello, Sean disappeared back into his room.  
  
         “New computer,” John said by way of explanation, and Gerry and Jason both nodded in sympathetic understanding.   “Have a seat.  What are you drinking?”  
  
         “We’ve brought some Bordeaux,” Gerry said, pointing to the basket.  John started unpacking the basket, oohing and aahing over its contents.  
  
         “Jason, how I’ve missed you!” John laughed, as he pulled out a block of heavenly looking Spanish goat cheese.  Soon the three of them had put together a tray of cheese and fruit, poured themselves wine, and were splayed out in the sitting room in front of the fire.  
  
         “So where is Paul?” Jason asked cheerfully.  
  
         John frowned.  “He should have been back by now.  In fact, he should have been back a few hours ago.  He probably stopped at the business offices on the way back,” John said grumpily.  “He’ll pay for that later,” he then joked.  Gerry and Jason chuckled politely, but neither of them knew whether John’s comment indicated a more serious problem in the relationship, or was just a small irritant.  
  
         “So how are the Wednesday evening soirees?” John asked.  “Still going on?”  
  
         “Oh, yes,” Jason said.  “Even if I wanted to end it, I think they’d all just show up anyway.”  
  
         “We’re all a bit like horses returning to the barn after we escape, apparently,” Gerry chuckled.  
  
         “God, I’ve missed you guys.  You made my life during that period bearable, and you helped me develop the strength to move on to a new life.”  John’s statement was sincere, and Jason and Gerry were both touched by it.  
  
         “How is that new life, John?” Jason asked gently, still concerned that there were problems in John’s life that perhaps he would tell them about since Paul wasn’t there.  
  
         “It’s really good,” John said.  “We own a townhouse – in a Regency building not far from Paul’s family home – and Paul spends half his time with me there.  The rest of the time he is down in Sussex with his family.  Sean spends half his time with us, and half his time with Yoko.”  
  
         Jason and Gerry heard this, and both of them were studying John’s expression and body language.  He didn’t seem to be holding anything back as far as they could tell.  
  
         “How about your work?” Gerry asked.  
  
         “Oh!  That’s the most exciting thing of all!  But you can’t tell anyone this – top secret – not even the Salon guys.  Paul and I have just finished recording an album, and we’re going to release it in a few months!”  
  
         This news truly surprised Gerry and Jason, in a positive way.  Perhaps working together was the glue that had managed to hold John and Paul together despite the difficulties in the living arrangements.  
  
         “We’re just going to let it appear on the market without too much advance fanfare,” John continued, “because neither of us can face a full-scale press offensive ever again as long as we live.”  John effused about the album for a while, and Gerry and Jason managed to look interested, even though their tastes ran more to classical music.  Still, John seemed lit up from within with his enthusiasm about his work, and this had never happened in all the time they’d known him.  
  
         When Gerry got up to use the powder room, Jason lowered his voice and asked, “So, John, tell me the truth.  How is it going with Paul?  Is it everything you hoped for?”  
  
         John considered his answer.  “Well, we’ve had a few bumps along the way,” John admitted.  “It was hard for me at first living out in the back of beyond in the country.  But once I got my own home in London, and I knew I would have him to myself half the time - instead of sharing him fulltime – things got better.  And then we started working together and things kind of fell into place.”  John wasn’t about to tell Jason about the whole Nigel experience.  He never wanted to think or hear about it again as long as he lived.  
  
         “Part time?  Is it enough for you?  What do you do when Paul’s in Sussex?”  
  
         “That’s the bit that surprised me.  I hated it at first – being alone – but I have actually developed a bit of independence as a result.  I have a routine for when he’s not around, and at least some of the time when Paul’s gone, Sean is there, so I’ve had some real one-on-one time with Sean.  Although Sean isn’t that _keen_ on one-on-one time with his father anymore,” John grinned ruefully.  “ _I_ think I’m the coolest thing around, but Sean apparently doesn’t agree.”  Jason laughed along with John at his amused discomfort.  
  
         “And Paul?  How is it working for him?  I recall sensing that he was under a lot of stress, balancing both you and his family.”  
  
         “Yeah, it’s been hard for him at times,” John agreed.  “It would be easier for him if he wasn’t so responsible and loyal.  No matter who he’s with he’s sitting there thinking that he is letting someone else he loves down.  I’m sure that weighs on him, although he never says anything about it.  I think he has figured out that this is the price he pays for having both of us in his life.”    
  
         "So do you actually see women 'on the side' as you were planning?  I thought that was the iffiest proposition of all."  
  
     "Once or twice," John responded smoothly.  "No big deal."  
  
         Jason nodded.  Although he remained skeptical, he couldn’t find anything to pick at – John’s comments sounded realistic, and he seemed sincere.  So, apparently the arrangement had actually worked out.  _You learn something every day_ , Jason thought to himself, and then smiled when he remembered this was one of Paul’s favorite sayings.  
  
         When Gerry returned to the sitting room, John got up and started pacing.  He was clearly very anxious.  “I wonder where the hell Paul is?” he asked the room at large.  He picked up the phone and called the Eastmans.  Jody answered.  “Is Paul there?” John asked abruptly.  
  
         “No,” she said.  “But I think he is at the office with John – er, _my_ John,” Jody said.  “Do you have the phone number?  When you reach them, you can tell my John to get his ass home, too.  Dinner’s ready.”  John laughed, and took the number.  He immediately dialed John Eastman’s work number.  It was after hours on a weekend, so there was no clerical staff there, and John Eastman himself answered the phone.  
  
         “John – this is John.”  
  
         “Hello, _John_ ,” Eastman laughed.  
  
         “I understand Paul is with you.  Can I talk to him?”  
  
         A moment later Paul was on the other end, “What’s up?”  
  
         “’ _What’s up’?  What’s the fuck up_?”  John shouted into the phone, alarming Gerry and Jason who were seated across the room.  
  
         Paul was set back by John’s reaction.  He was so surprised he said nothing in response.  
  
         “I’ve been sitting here wondering where the hell you are!  I’ve been worried!  I’ve invited Jason and Gerry over, and we’re sitting here waiting on you!  Dinner is ready, I worked all afternoon – and where the hell are _you_?”  Jason and Gerry were getting an earful.  “You couldn’t spare me a fuckin’ phone call?”  
  
         Paul finally found his voice.  “I told you I had some work to do on my way back from the airp…”  That’s as far as he got.  
  
         “I don’t remember that!” John shouted.  
  
         “I can’t be responsible for the fact that you never listen to me,” Paul pointed out reasonably, although he was a little irritated with all the drama.  Before John could react, he said, “Did you say Jason and Gerry were there?”  
  
         “Yes!  We’ve been waiting for you!”  John declared.  
  
         “Well then, I’ll leave right now.  I’ll be there in less than 20 minutes, so go ahead and get dinner on the table,” Paul said quickly, trying to cut John’s tantrum off at the pass.  Paul quickly hung up and turned to his brother-in-law.  “I’m in really hot water,” he said with a sheepish grin on his face.  “The time got away from us again.”  
  
         Eastman gave him a sympathetic look.  “I’ll bet Jody will have a few choice words, too.  I didn’t realize we’d been here so long.”  
  
         Back in the townhouse, John was pissed.  He went around the kitchen banging pot lids and muttering to himself about insensitive, clueless, heartless gits…  
  
         Amused to have witnessed this entirely typical domestic squabble, Jason got up to assist John by quietly starting to set the table.  John noticed and began handing him things for the table, and in this quiet way they efficiently worked together while Gerry smoked his pipe in the sitting room, thinking to himself how interesting it was going to be when Paul got there.  It would be much better than an evening in front of the television, he thought to himself.  There would be fireworks for sure.  
  
         It was less than twenty minutes later when a breathless Paul burst through the front door.  He had paid the taxi driver extra to get him home as fast as possible, and as a result had been treated to one of the most _exciting_ road trips of his life.  Then he had literally run up the four flights of stairs rather than waiting for the elevator, which took forever.  
  
         “I’m here!” he announced, and then literally bent over and gasped for air.  
  
         In his comfy seat, Gerry removed his pipe and started chuckling immediately.  _This was going to be fun_.  
  
         “It’s the prodigal son!” Jason piped, hustling over (in one of John’s aprons) to envelope Paul in a hug.  
  
         Paul whispered in Jason’s ear, “How much trouble am I in?”  
  
         Jason’s eyebrows went up and he whispered back, “Suck it up…he’s gonna have a go at you.”  
  
         Paul nodded fatalistically, and, seeing Gerry, went over and offered his hand.  Gerry got up, and the two instead maneuvered an awkward hug.  They never really did ‘get’ each other, but there was some wary respect on both sides.  Then, taking a deep breath - and after Jason gave him an encouraging nod - Paul slowly approached the kitchenette, where John was studiously ignoring Paul’s arrival while he unnecessarily fussed with the vegetarian meal he had cooked.  
  
         “Hey luv,” Paul said softly as he approached.  
  
         John ignored him.  
  
         “Oh, come on, look at me,” Paul said, using his most charming voice and his most angelic expression.  “I’m sorry – I’m a clod, I know it.”  
  
         John finally looked up with a cross look on his face, but still said nothing.  
  
         “It was all the details about the contracts.  The time got away from us.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t know we were having Jason and Gerry for dinner.  Did I miss you telling me about that?”  Paul had moved in closer to John, and his right hand was running up and down John’s back, and then went lower, until it was resting on one of John’s butt cheeks. His lips at this point were right up against John’s ear, and John was feeling the little electric shocks all over his body that always accompanied Paul’s touches.  
  
         John was melting.  Even against his will.  He never could resist the Macca charm.  “Well, no, I didn’t tell you.  Jason and Gerry were going to be a surprise.  I think that’s why I’m so upset.”  
  
         Paul presented John with his most honest and uncomplicated smile.  “But I _am_ surprised!  I’m looking forward to this evening!”  
  
         John shook his head and muttered an imprecation under his breath.  
  
         “What was that, sorry?” Paul asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.  
  
         “You don’t wanna know what I said, asshole,” John growled, his grin giving him away.   “You know damn well I’m putty in your fuckin’ hands,” he added grumpily.  In response, Paul gave John a loving smack on his ass and leaned in for a kiss, which John permitted.  
  
         Watching from the sitting room, Jason thought, _ahhhh_ , and Gerry was thinking _those two guys are hot together_.  
  
         Paul announced that dinner was ready, and everyone moved towards the table while Paul went to drag Sean out of his bedroom.  A few moments later the pouting teenager emerged, with earplugs in his ears, which were attached to a tiny piece of equipment.  As Sean sat down, John leaned over and pulled them out, leaning in to say, “Earth to Sean!  Earth to Sean!”  
  
         “Ha ha, very funny,” Sean said, in his cracking half-low, half-high teen voice.  
  
         The dinner conversation was fun.  Sean actually lightened up a little under the influence of the laughter and warmth.  Jason and Gerry were regaling them all with what had happened in the last four and a half years in their unique and hilarious way, and the wine they’d brought softened up the atmosphere considerably.  
  
         Later, Sean again ensconced himself in his bedroom, and three of the four men gathered in the sitting room with after dinner aperitifs.  Gerry was lighting up his pipe, and Jason occupied the other easy chair while John curled up on the sofa.  A moment later Paul joined them, cuddling up so close to John on the sofa, that there was no daylight between them.  Jason and Gerry both noticed this with happiness – for John’s sake.  Paul may have blotted his copybook with his late arrival, but he sure was working overtime to make up for it.  That was a good sign – it meant that he was still deeply invested in the relationship, and was willing to do what was necessary to make it work.  
  
         When it was time for the evening to end, John and Jason headed for the kitchenette to pack up the leavings from the picket basket, and Paul and Gerry were left in the sitting room, each quietly staring at the gas fire.  
  
         “I have to admit I thought this whole sharing idea the two of you had was crazy,” Gerry suddenly said in a low voice.  
  
         Paul laughed.  “It _is_ crazy. It’s _totally_ crazy.”  Gerry looked over at him and smiled in a perplexed way.  “The only thing crazier,” Paul explained to Gerry’s confused face, “would be to walk away from each other.  We really don’t have a choice, so we _have_ to make it work.”  
  
         Gerry wasn’t sure he understood.  He had never been a risk-taker, and he had always led his life in accordance with a series of guidelines, and rarely if ever had ventured off the beaten path.  He didn’t understand the kind of passion that caused people to love each other to the extent that they couldn’t live with each other, but couldn’t live without each other either.  This had always seemed suspect to him.  Why would people want to live surrounded by that much doubt and drama?  
  
         Paul read the skepticism in Gerry’s face, and allowed his face to relax into its usual unreadable pleasant façade.  There was no point in trying to explain what John and he shared to a guy like Gerry.  It would be like trying to explain to a zoologist why you believed in unicorns.   Still, they gave each other strong handshakes at the door.  
  
         Jason, meanwhile, had room in his heart to wrap Paul in a huge, loving hug.  He whispered in Paul’s ear, “If John kicks you out, and if Gerry kicks me out, I’m yours.”  
  
         Paul laughed out loud, much to Gerry and John’s surprise, and then Paul said, “You’re on!”  Paul and Jason gave each other a high five, and as the two couples parted they made promises to see each other again before John and Paul left for England.  Next time, they decided, they would meet in a restaurant.   
  


*****

  
  
        Gerry and Jason trudged back across the park with their picnic basket.  Jason was humming, and Gerry was deep in thought.  
  
         “I don’t get it,” Gerry finally said.  “How can a person love a man and a woman in the same way?  It doesn’t seem possible to me.”  
  
         “Gerry, sometimes I think you’re a Neanderthal.  The human being is an intricate creature.  There are no rules.  And human sexuality is not an either/or situation.  It is like a continuum, and a person could fall anywhere along that line from one extreme to the other.”  
  
         Gerry was silent for a while.  Then:  “Do you think Paul really _loves_ John?  Is he really dedicated to him, as much as he is to his wife and children?  Why can’t I feel comfortable about that man?  He does and says all the right things...”  
  
         Jason sighed.  “You’re prejudiced against him because of his looks,” Jason said flatly.  “You always have been.  When you look at him, that is all you can see.”  
  
         “It’s a lot to look at.  He is extraordinarily good looking,” Gerry pointed out.  
  
         Jason chuckled.  Then he gave Gerry the eye.  “Whenever I’m around those two, for some reason, I get very aroused,” he said with a wink, and Gerry’s lips tweaked in response.  _Yes, this had been a very interesting evening, and it was shaping up to be an even more interesting night_.  
  
  


******

  
  
        As soon as the door closed behind Jason and Gerry, Paul turned to John and said, “Gerry thinks we’re crazy, and I don’t think he likes me.”  
  
         John said, “We _are_ crazy, and Jason told me once that Gerry doesn’t trust beautiful men, so it’s nothing personal, Paul.”  
  
         “Oh, that makes me feel _so_ much better,” Paul said.  Then a fake pout adopted his face.   “I need something to cheer me up a bit,” he whined.  
  
         “Oh?  What did you have in mind?”  John’s eyes were twinkling.  
  
         “I don’t know.  Something…well, something that makes me _feel good_ about myself again.”  Paul had a falsely innocent expression on his face.  
         
         “Well, I think you need to go get naked, Paul, and I’ll say goodnight to Sean and then I’ll join you.”  
  
         “I’ll get naked in the bathtub,” Paul said loudly over his shoulder as he headed down the hallway towards the master suite.  John chuckled as he shook his head.  _Life was like a roller coaster with that man_ , he thought.  _And how I love roller coasters_.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Now for Something Completely Different....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present the next chapter, wherein we get more Gerry and Jason, and Paul pulls himself together (for the time being at least)...

       It was an old Irish Ale House, but it was situated in the East Village on Manhattan Island, New York.  It was the oldest bar in New York City.  Tucked into a corner in the back room, and hunkering over a scarred old wooden table and wobbling around on rickety wooden chairs were John, Paul, Jason and Gerry.  Then had all ordered dark pairs and were just starting to sip the thick foamy heads off their ales.  The bar had been John’s idea.  Jason and Gerry had never been to this landmark before, and were alarmed by the state of decrepitude that surrounded them.  Jason was vocal about it, but Gerry was not.  
  
       “What’s that thing hanging over the bar for Zeus’s sake?” Jason remarked, pointing at what appeared to be plumbing pipe with a toilet floater in the middle masquerading as a chandelier, with a bunch of hoary sticks hanging off it.    
  
       John laughed.  “I think those are old wish bones from chickens, collecting dust.”  
  
       “Good heavens!  _Gross_!  Whatever for?”  Jason was shocked down to his socks.  How unhygienic!    
  
       “Soldiers left them there during World War II as a good luck charm, before they embarked, and when they got back,” John explained.  
  
       “Oh.  I see.  Well, that’s alright I guess,” Jason thought outloud.  At least those dusty old wishbones had a worthwhile backstory.    
  
       “I can’t believe we’ve never been to this place, even though we’ve spent our entire adult lives in Manhattan,” Gerry said to Jason.  
  
       “Hardly surprising Ger,” Jason said, “seeing as how we’re both Jewish.  Why would we be going to an Irish bar?”  
  
       “Excuse _us_ then!” Paul interjected in a fake flouncy voice, pretending to be insulted on behalf of his race.   
  
       “Yeah, what’s wrong with us Irish, anyway?” John piled on.  “We’ve done pretty well for ourselves all over the fucking world, I’d say.”    
  
       “But not as well as the Jews,” Gerry pointed out with a twinkle in his eyes.  “And not at such a cost.”  
  
       “Oh, well, when he puts it _that_ way, John, I guess he has a point,” Paul said in a pouty tone of voice.  
  
       “Yeah, but at least we’re better at drinking and fighting than you are,” John groused, immediately taking a huge swallow of dark ale while holding one fist up in Irish solidarity.    
  
       By unspoken agreement, they instantly changed the subject.  “When are you headed back to England?” Jason asked.    
  
       John looked at Paul for some clue.    
  
       Paul shrugged.  “Two days?”  He looked back at John for confirmation.  
  
       “Yeah, about right.  Two days,” John said firmly.    
        
       “We’ve got some business to transact, and then we’re headed back to get ready for the craziness,” Paul said by way of explanation.  
  
       “It will be a big deal, won’t it, the two of you making a record again?  I imagine all hell will break loose,” Jason mused.  
  
       Paul flinched from the stroke of anxiety that ran through him at the mention of the album debut before he quickly forced a bland expression on to his face.    
  
       But John responded to Jason’s comment.  “Well, we _hope_ all hell will break loose.  If it doesn’t, we’ll know we’re finished for sure.”    
  
       Jason and Gerry exchanged a worried look.  Until that moment they hadn’t considered how much was at stake for their two friends in this enterprise.  Somehow, to outsiders, the lives of the rich and famous appeared perfect.  They couldn’t possibly have the kind of worries and fears that normal people had.  In this brief moment it was as if Jason and Gerry had seen a snapshot of John and Paul’s reality, before it was brusquely swept away.  
  
       “Yes,” Paul said with a twinkle in his eye which he hoped didn’t look too forced, “we live in a world where hell breaking loose is what you’re shooting for and coveting.  And they wonder why we’re all bonkers.”  Everyone laughed, and Gerry thought it was time to make the conversation meaningful.  
  
       “So, how are you going to deal with your relationship?  I mean, with the press.  Surely, there will be questions,” Gerry’s face was serious, laden with concern.  He had lived an utterly closeted work life, and he more than Jason understood how frightening it could be to have people poking around in one’s private life, trying to satisfy their prurient curiosity.  Some of the pokers were even driven by malice.    
  
       John was alarmed that Gerry raised the serious subject.  He quickly looked around him to make sure no one was listening in on the conversation.  Thus far no one seemed to have recognized him or Paul, but there were a lot of hard core New Yorkers in this crowd, and such folk would play it totally cool even if he and Paul had been recognized.  His next automatic reaction was to turn to take a quick look at Paul.  Paul had that sphinxlike expression on his face.  He appeared not to have a worry in the world, and was contemplating his beer.  
  
       John’s voice dropped down to a low whisper, and he leaned across the table so Gerry and Jason could hear.  “We’re not telling anyone, and we’re denying it if anyone asks.  So don’t be surprised if you hear us saying all kinds of bullshit.”  
  
       “Of course you have the right,” Jason said loyally.  “It’s no one’s business but yours.”   
  
       John sighed.  “When you’re a Beatle, _nothing_ is yours.”  John’s voice was dripping with bitterness.  “It’s like being stalked by hundreds – no thousands! – of people, all day and all night, year in and year out.  We have had to _fight_ to keep even the tiny scraps of private memories that we still do have – all four of us.  That’s why we keep each other’s secrets, even when we’ve been pissed at each other, and suing each other, and crapping all over each other in the press.  We never spilled each other’s secrets, because we’re among the only people in the world who know what it is like to not be able to count on keeping to ourselves any private thoughts or feelings.”    
  
       “Doesn’t sound like a great way to live,” Gerry said thoughtfully.  “It makes one wonder why you are willing to expose yourselves to the rat race again.”  
  
       Paul cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but rather than speaking, he started on his second beer.   
  
       John was a little irritated by Paul going silent on him, but gamely spoke up.  “It’s one part of being a successful musician that is horrible, true,” he said.  “But there are so many other things that are benefits.  When it is all weighed together, there are more good things than bad things.”  
  
       Paul finally spoke.  “We can manage the bad things to a certain extent as well,” he pointed out.  “The big thing is to keep your head down and keep moving.”  
  
       John laughed.  “Yeah, the rotten tomatoes don’t stick if you move fast enough.”    
  
       While everyone laughed, Gerry finally realized that neither John nor Paul was in the mood to seriously discuss the subject.  But he was worried for them.  Gerry had been publicly exposed once, when he was in his twenties, in a particularly humiliating way, and ever since then he had never wished that on even his worst enemy.  Far from enemies, these two men had grown on Gerry – and in Paul’s case, against Gerry’s better judgment.  He hoped they were really ready to face the consequences of their lifestyle, should it be exposed.  There were a lot of people who knew or suspected.  Yoko knew.  Would this album release be an opportunity for her to make a few suggestive remarks?  They must have friends in London who knew, or strongly suspected the truth.  Could they all be trusted?  It seemed more likely than not that one of them at least would be tempted to carry tales to the tabloids.  There was probably a lot of money in it for them to do so.  Gerry had hoped to use this conversation as a vehicle to open up the subject and to provide them with some advice and support.  But obviously, the two men did not want to explore those forbidden thoughts.    
  
       Shrugging, Gerry allowed Jason to change the subject to the books he had been reading, and he watched John’s quick interest in the subject.   He looked up to find Paul intently listening to Jason and John’s conversation.  He wasn’t adding much, but he was clearly fully engaged.  It may be that John was a good influence on Paul in this regard – forcing him to look up from his creative endeavors and business activities and broaden his horizons by participating in matters of art and literature.  Gerry wondered why this hadn’t occurred to him before – that maybe Paul was growing and changing to be more like the person John needed him to be.  He’d have to give that more thought.  
  
       As the men stepped out of the pub, a series of bright flashes went off in their faces while a man was shouting out John’s and Paul’s names.    
  
       “What the hell?” Jason cried, momentarily blinded by the light and filled with panic.  
  
       “Its just a paparazzi.  Keep walking, don’t engage him,” John had his hand against Jason’s lower back, pushing him forward, and issuing _sotto voce_ instructions to Jason and Gerry as they quickly headed for their hired limo.  They followed Paul who was leading the way with his head down, and taking long, fast steps, they all soon were jumping in to the car, and the driver immediately took off.    
  
       “Whoa!  That was scary!”  Jason announced.  
  
       “Look at the bright side, Jason.  Tomorrow you’ll be famous!”  John laughed.  But he soon subsided into silence, and Paul was silent too.  The car dropped Jason and Gerry first, and John and Paul went on in continued silence as the driver made his way around the park and to the front of their loft building.  Both men instinctively were watching through the car windows for people following them in cars, or waiting around on the sidewalk in front of their townhouse.  Seeing no one suspicious, they literally poured out of the car and in a few long fast strides were safely inside the lobby, the door having been held open for them by the doorman.  They shared an elevator ride up with two curious women, who were apparently visiting a friend in the building.  Both men were thinking the same thing:  _they’re wondering why we’re here, and why we’re together._ Both men put calm, neutral expressions on their faces, and smiled when the two women shyly waved them goodbye as they got off on their floor.  
  
       The door to their loft was safely closed behind them. Sean was glued to his computer screen, and John told him to turn it off and get to bed.  He then dismissed the kidsitter – his personal assistant – who gathered his things and left.  Then John followed Paul into their bedroom, where they both completed their usual bedtime routine without speaking.  It wasn’t until they were under the covers, and lying next to each other in the dark – staring up at the ceiling – that John found the will to speak.  
  
       “This is all going to be tricky from now on,” he said.  
  
       “ _’From now on_?’  It’s been tricky the whole time,” Paul said drily.    
  
       John chuckled.  “I should have said, ‘trickier’ I guess.”  
  
       Paul nodded, not realizing that John couldn’t see him in the dark.    
  
       “So what are we going to do?”  John asked the dark room.  
  
       “What do you mean?”  Paul asked.  
  
       “How are we going to deal with _this_?”  John’s arm waved around, encompassing their surroundings.  
  
       Paul knew what he was talking about.  “We will have to be even more careful about things than we have been, that’s the first thing for sure.”  
  
       “Like those women we met in the elevator.  They’re going to tell people they saw us in this random elevator in this random building.  Then those people will tell _other_ people.”  
  
       “It was perfectly innocent.  We were riding in an elevator together.  For all they know, we were visiting a friend, too.  Anyway, it’s their word against ours.”  Paul was really trying to reassure himself, even though it sounded as if he was trying to reassure John.  
  
       John was not reassured.  “And that pap outside McSorley’s,” John said.  “They’ll be trying to identify who Jason and Gerry are, and people who know them will recognize them, and maybe they’ll call the paper…”  
  
       “John, again, even if it gets that far, there’s no law against having a gay couple as friends.”  
  
       “It would look suspicious, is all I’m saying, if they put the pieces together.”  
  
       “It looks suspicious to us because we have guilty consciences,” Paul responded.  “So the main thing is, we have to act completely open and unconcerned no matter what happens.  If we don’t get all nervous and upset about it, people will not automatically jump to the right conclusions.”   
  
       John chuckled.  “ _’The right conclusions’_ ,” he repeated, loving the surprise in the phrase.    
  
       Paul’s throat cleared.    
  
       “What?” John asked idly.  
  
       “I was wondering if a guy could get a hand here, if it’s not too much trouble…”  
  
       All thought of paparazzo left John’s head as he leaned on his side and grabbed the proffered body part.  
  


*****

  
  
       Back in London, John was alone in the townhouse because Paul had gone down to Sussex to be with his family.  At a loose end for a week or so, John’s thoughts wended towards his hook-up with May Pang in New York.  It had just been those two nights between them, and he hadn’t spoken to her since because he had been with Paul and the deal was he wouldn’t bring her into his life with Paul.  And, if John were being totally truthful, he was grateful for that excuse.  John no longer had illusions that he preferred sex with women, and that Paul was just an aberration.  He had come to terms with the idea that he couldn’t be emotionally intimate with a woman, and while he might enjoy sex with a woman if Paul wasn’t around, he had no intention of getting involved in a bonded relationship with a woman – or any other person who wasn’t Paul.  He saw how painful it was for Paul to have two soul mates, and he definitely didn’t want that kind of bittersweet burden for himself.  
  
       Still, John rationalized, none of this should keep him from giving May a call.  Just to have a nice chat with someone to pass the time, that is.  
  


*****

  
  
       The Sussex countryside was unusually bright for a February morning, but it was exceedingly crisp of course.  Paul was doing odd jobs around the place, turning to physical exercise to drown out the intense, confusing noise going on in his head.   His nerves had been taut for months now, and he was regularly assailed with free-floating anxiety.  He had done his best to ignore it, or at least to funnel the energy it created into positive endeavors.  But it was getting harder and harder for him to ignore.    
  
       It had occurred to him in the middle of the bleeding night – another night where he tossed and turned, and snuck out of the bedroom so as not to disturb his bed partner – that he remembered when he had felt this anxiety before.  It was associated with his album releases post-Beatles.  This realization was a double-edged sword.  On the one hand it was a tremendous relief to finally put a name to the emotional turmoil.  On the other hand, addressing the issue head-on had turned his anxiety level up to “eleven” because in an instant his worrying went from fuzzy and diffuse to being in stark focus.    
  
       There were extremely high stakes at risk in this album release.  Next week he and John were sitting down for their first interview to promote the album, and Paul was beginning to realize that he was in no way ready for “carve up time”.  If the reviews were bad or even mediocre, it would forever tarnish the “Lennon/McCartney” label.  And if the reviews were good and generated a lot of excitement it would certainly be gratifying on one level, but Paul was not at all sure he was ready for the type of exposure that would follow such success.   His relationship with John now was a lot different from the one they’d shared in the ‘60s.  Back then they would have assessed their relationship this way:  1) Creative Partners, 2) Friends,  
3) Lovers.  Now they would assess it this way:  1) Lovers, 2) Friends, 3) Creative Partners.  It was a complete reversal in emphasis.  Knowing what he knew about the tabloid press and the paparazzi, Paul felt little confidence that his and John’s secret would be safe for long.  It would start as whispers, morph into suggestive and then outright jokes, and after that the backlash would start.  
  
       Why hadn’t he weighed this more heavily in his rush to work with John again?  For himself, he didn’t care. Well, he _cared_ , but not enough to forego working with John.  But Linda and the kids…  How would that be?  Paul could barely think of it – the humiliation of having to explain it all to his grown and teenaged daughters.  And how would it impact James – to find this out about his father?  Maybe he had to sit down with them before all hell broke loose?  But no!  He couldn’t!  He couldn’t bear to see the shock, betrayal, disgust or just plain disappointment in their faces.  And what about Sean and Julian?  Paul felt his heart starting to beat heavily inside his chest.  He forced himself to stop thinking about the children.  
  
       Then there was John.  Paul didn’t think John would handle it well, either.  He had been all shook up by the one paparazzi shot, which had been a one-day’s wonder when it was published.  (No one gave the photo a second thought, although there had been a significant uptick in McSorley’s business for a few weeks afterwards.)  John had always cared more about his reputation – the way he was perceived by the outside world – than had Paul.  Paul needed and wanted to be liked, of course, perhaps even at times pathetically so, but he always needed and wanted to be liked _on his own terms_.  John, however, had always been willing to wear a mask if the mask would make him look cooler, tougher, more politically correct, more interesting – more of whatever the public wanted him to be at that moment in time.  Paul worried that John would not like it if a large part of the public suddenly started sneering at him, and calling him queer.    
  
       Of course, now that John was seeing May Pang, maybe this would serve as a defense to rumors even starting.  Paul hadn’t allowed himself to think about the May thing.  He had blocked that part out of his thinking entirely.  It was easier not to be bothered by a thing if you just ignored it; pretended it wasn’t there.  It had been easy for him to say that he wouldn’t mind John having other lovers so long as they were women.  It was another thing to actually be confronted with the reality of John with another lover – someone else he could be close to.  This was yet another thing to shut out of his mind, Paul decided.  He ruthlessly closed that line of thought down.  He could live with it, he would have to live with it, and, if he could only get a grip on this irrational insecurity he felt, John with a woman for a lover would make Paul and Linda’s life easier on so many levels.  He made a promise that he would force himself to swallow that bromide every time the subject of May came up:  _this makes everything easier_.  It could be like a mantra, or something.  
  
       Paul forced his mind back to the album release.  His competitive juices were flowing, and he didn’t want to back out now, even though he had no stomach for what lay ahead.  He had faith that the work was great; the problem was, music had changed a lot and tastes had changed.  It might be great Lennon/McCartney music, but their kind of music might not resonate any more.   George had made a successful album just a few months earlier, however, and that seemed to indicate that there was room for success in that music niche.  
  
       George.  Paul felt another twang of anxiety.  He’d really made a fool of himself over that stupid George lawsuit threat thing.  Thank God John and Linda had talked him out of refusing to attend the Hall of Fame event.  If he hadn’t gone, he would have been publicly ridiculed for sure, and he would have made even more of an enemy out of Jann Wenner than he already was.  It was embarrassing now, in the aftermath, to remember his tantrums, pouting and whining.  Paul hated to show his basest thoughts and emotions to others.  Most people apparently thought Paul did this out of too much self-regard, and a desire to be thought of as perfect by others.  In truth, what Paul hated about acting out his less attractive moods was that they suddenly became apparent to _him_.  He didn’t want to know how awful he could really be; it would disappoint the people he loved most, and they wouldn’t respect him anymore.  If he could just lock these ugly things up in compartments inside him, and keep them there, then he never needed to actually know how low he could actually stoop.    
  
       Of course, the fact that he had over-reacted to George’s financial demands didn’t excuse George for constantly reopening the wounds between the four of them, in an apparently endless attempt to redistribute the Beatles’ wealth - paper-cut by paper-cut - in accordance with his own self-entitled preferences.  But George was never going to see it that way.  He was going to go through life believing he was wronged, and that he was entitled to _more_.  John was right.  Paul really had to just accept that this was a quirk of George’s personality that wasn’t going to change any time soon, unless George himself decided to stop.  Nothing Paul could do or say was going to make the slightest difference.  Why couldn’t he just let it go?  He’d always known that he’d end up settling the dispute eventually anyway, so why not let the lawyers handle it, and not get involved?  Paul vowed to himself to try harder not to get dragged back in to this psychosis next time; that is, if there was a next time.  One could always hope that this would be the _last_ time.  
  
       Paul had been digging a hole for a fence post furiously throughout this whirlwind of negative and hurtful thoughts.  But suddenly he stopped, realizing that his arms were aching and he was having trouble catching his breath.  He leaned against the shovel handle and breathed deeply and slowly until he regained a normal heartbeat.  The sweat that had heated him up almost to a boiling point only a moment earlier had suddenly turned cold and clammy against his skin, and Paul shivered in the chilly air.    
  
       _One step at a time_ , Paul said to himself.  _That’s all you can reasonably do.  But what’s the next step?  The interview._ He had to practice in his mind the kinds of questions he would be asked, and the kinds of answers he would give to those questions.  What pitfalls came with what answers?  He really did have to give this a lot of thought, because one inadvertent misspeak could complicate all of their lives immeasurably.  Paul started feeling better; he felt more in control.  He would just treat all of these competing worries as distinct and separate problems, each by itself not insoluble.  He would tackle them one by one, as they enfolded.  If he thought of them as being all tied together in one inseparable ganglion then he would continue to be filled with anxiety and hopelessness.  So the next step was to confront the first reporter.  After that, it would be something else.  Paul felt he could handle that.  He was proud of himself that he had seen himself through this maze of confusion without having to lean on either Linda or John.   It was kind of a first for him.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JOHN AND PAUL ARE INTERVIEWED BY ROLLING STONE, and the delicate dance between J&P and the press about their personal relationship begins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG THANK YOU to gdelghiblueeyes (LJ) for his great work in researching potential comments for J&P in response to specific questions about the songs for the "album". I gave him a list of songs, and he did research and provided some responses to add to my own plot-driven ones, and hesto presto! we came up with this faux interview... Also, gdelpghiblueeyes wants me to credit John Lennon for some of his own remarks in this faux interview, because he researched some of Lennon's remarks about the later songs that he wrote just prior to his death and in some cases just borrowed Lennon's quotes for the answers to these questions. In any case, I am beholden to gdelghiblueeyes's contributions in making this sound (from an industry point of view) believable.

         Paul had reluctantly agreed with John and their manager that they really would have to accept the interview offer made by _Rolling Stone Magazine_ to preview their new album.  At the time it was not only the most prestigious periodical of the rock world, but it was pretty darn near the _only_ one.  Paul still harbored deep resentments against the magazine’s editor, Jann Wenner, who had gone out of his way on dozens of occasions to insult and dismiss him, as an artist and even as a person.  Wenner had done this while simultaneously lionizing John.  Of course, Paul also knew that John had been largely responsible for the rock critics turning on him, but John had a _reason_ for his conduct.  However muddled his reasoning, John had felt hurt and rejected, and was striking out at Paul in revenge, and his anger had come from a place of injured love, not from a place of objective hate.  But Paul had never done _anything_ to Wenner or any of the other rock critics he employed, so their unnecessarily hostile attacks had been completely unprovoked.  Paul understood that they didn’t have to like his music - it didn’t have to be to their taste - but they needn’t have been so _nasty_ about it, or taken it to such a deeply personal level.  
  
         But Wenner had the bully pulpit, and John had assured Paul that he could keep Wenner & Co. in line.  Paul, dubious but having no alternative to suggest, went along like a lamb to the slaughter.  He had vowed to himself he would never talk to Wenner or any of his henchmen again, and yet here he was…  
  
         The interview was to take place in their manager’s office in Central London, and Wenner himself had decided to conduct the interview.  He was bringing Annie Leibowitz with him to take the photos.  The advance copy of the album had already been given to Wenner, and it had made the rounds to an enthusiastic audience at the _Rolling Stone_ offices in New York.  The buzz was _extremely_ good.  
  
         The photo session was first, and Annie had some strong ideas about how she wanted to photograph them.  She had heard the album, and had gleaned from the songs that there was a lot going on between these two men that had not yet been exposed.  It excited her very much – the direction they were headed with their – perhaps inadvertent - coy disclosures.  Annie had admired those David Bailey shots of John and Paul from 1965.  They were mysterious, hot, and freighted with sexual tension.  She wanted to do something similar for the _RS_ cover, so she knew that she would be doing a lot of shots in black and white with strong contrast between the two.  
  
         As her assistant was fiddling with the cameras and Annie was examining the effects cast by the lights, John and Paul suddenly strolled onto the “set”.    The photo assistants and art director had taken over and emptied a conference room in the manager’s office suite, and had turned it into an ad hoc photo studio with a plain white sheet standing in as background.  Annie had asked them to wear black and white, and mostly black, to create a contrast with the plain white background.  John wore a black polo neck pullover with dark blue jeans, and his auburn hair was shorter than it had been the last time she had photographed him, but still quite lustrous.  Paul had on black slacks, with an open necked white shirt and a black jacket thrown carelessly over the top.  His black wavy hair had a few gorgeous streaks of silver running through them.  They both looked fabulous, photogenic.   They would do nicely.  She got started immediately.  
  


*****

  
  
       Wenner was in their manager’s office, chatting with the manager, and swilling a bottle of Evian water.  To Paul, he looked like a big fat cat lying in the sun, self-satisfied and comfy on the sofa.  Like he owned the place.  Paul’s hackles raised immediately, but he forced himself to paste a smile on his face that wasn’t too warm or too phony.  He needn’t have bothered.  Wenner didn’t waste any time on Paul at all.  It was as if Paul didn’t exist to him.  Jann had immediately jumped up and cried,  
  
         “ _John!_ It’s been a long time!”  He grabbed John by his upper arms, and pulled him into a bear hug.  Perplexed and amused, John looked over Jann’s shoulder to Paul with a ‘ _whatcha gonna do’_ expression on his face.  Paul smiled back in genuine amusement.  It wasn’t John’s fault that Jann was such a prick.  Jann finally detangled himself from John, and then held out a cool hand to Paul.  “Hello, Paul.  Good to see you.”  
  
         Paul shook the proffered hand with a light grip, and kept his face carefully neutral, smiling pleasantly, and then found a seat.  John sat down next to him, and Jann was across from them.  
  
         John spoke first, and his voice carried authority.  “Let’s cut the small talk, and get straight down to business.  We’re here to talk about the album, only.  So let’s keep it professional.  Where’s your tape recorder?”  
  
         Jann was a little nonplussed at being rushed by John, but he obediently set out his small recorder, and turned it on.   After uttering a few introductory remarks, Jann dove right in.  
  
         “It’s been about, what, 17 years since you’ve worked together.  And this album is coming as a complete surprise to the music world.  What made you decide to work together again?”  
  
         Paul was sitting back in the sofa with his arms crossed, studying the fingernails on his left hand.  John was sitting a little forward, and took the laboring oar.  
  
         “We started working together again about a year and a half ago.  We’d each reached a place in our solo work where we needed new inspiration, and someone to act as a sounding board.”  John’s voice was upbeat, but it sounded a little contrived to Wenner.  
  
         “So, who called whom?”  
  
         “Pardon?”  John asked, genuinely confused by the question.  
  
         “I’m guessing one of you called the other and said, ‘Hey, let’s work together again.’”  
  
         “Oh, I see what you mean,” John answered.  “I guess it was me.  I asked Paul if he’d look at some song fragments I had, to see if he could make anything out of them.  _I_ certainly couldn’t.   At the time, he was busy working on some of the songs that are now on our joint album, and he suggested that I give them a listen.”  
  
         “How have you kept it so quiet?”  
  
         John laughed.  “It wasn’t that hard.  We were off the radar, both of us, for the last few years, weren’t we?  It was really refreshing for us, to be able to work without the world watching us and waiting for the results so they could pounce on it.”  
  
         Jann thought to himself:  _Something is wrong, here.  John is not being open and honest.  He’s not even being funny. His answers are stilted and rehearsed_.  He turned to Paul, who had yet to utter a single word, and who appeared not to be interested in the interview at all.  _He’s still staring at his fucking fingernails._  
  
         “So, Paul, how is it working with John again?”  _What a stupid question.  Why am I suddenly tone deaf_?  Jann asked himself.  
  
         “It’s great, thanks.”  Paul’s smile was brief, and then he was looking at his hands again.  
  
         _Now what?_ Jann thought furiously.  “The last time any of us heard, the two of you were not on the best of terms, so I’m a little surprised that you’re working together again after so much time.”  
  
         “Are you?  Well, it’s good to know we still have the capacity to surprise you, Jann,” John drawled.  
  
         “But how do you do it?  How do you work together after all the things you said about each other’s solo work?”  Jann persisted.  
  
         “We didn’t say all that much about each other’s solo work,” John said reasonably.  “Most of what was said came from critics and reporters, actually.”  John looked pointedly at Jann, who recoiled a little at what he saw in John’s eyes.  _Was that hostility?_  
  
 _The album.  I’ll talk about the songs on the album._ “We’ve played the album at our headquarters, and everyone is very enthusiastic about it,” Jann said lamely.  
  
         “That’s good to hear,” John cooed.  
  
         “And you chose really hot producers- Brian Eno and Daniel Lanois.  How was it working with them?”  
  
         “They worked with us, more than we worked with them,” John said in a slightly supercilious voice.  Paul chuckled at that remark, but didn’t speak.  “But,” John continued, “they were really good sounding boards, and helped us resolve a number of technical issues.”  
  
         Paul interjected for the first time, “And they had some fresh ideas.”  
  
         “Should we go through the tracks?”  Jann asked.  Hearing no protests, he proceeded.  Let’s talk about “ _Free As a Bird_ ”.  John, you sing that one.”  
  
         “Well, what inspired this song, actually, was a dream,” John said. “I dream in color, and it's always very surreal. My dream world is complete Hieronymus Bosch and Dali. I love it. I look forward to it. One recurrent dream, all through my life, has been the flying bit. I'd always fly in time of danger. I remember it as a child, flying around, like swimming in the air. I'd be swimming round where I lived or somewhere I knew very well usually. The other times in dreams I remember are nightmarish, where there'd be a giant horse or something and whenever it would get near to a danger point I would fly away. I used to translate it to myself, when I used to dream in Liverpool, that it was that I wanted to get away from the place. Some of my most vivid dreams were about me being in a plane, flying over a certain part of Liverpool. It was when I was at school. The plane used to fly over time and time again, going higher and higher. I must have had ambition without realizing it -- a subconscious urge to get above people or out of a rut. You dream your way out until you actually, physically get out of it.”  
  
         “Which I think is what the song is about,” added Paul. “It's one of John's less cagy ones, it's all there in the lyric. There's the girl who used to be an artist, but she set aside her ambitions, keeps those to herself, and she gets a nine to five job, deals with a bunch of prats every day, living up to her lawyer mum's expectations. And she longs to be free as a bird. She's got the same dream John had, I had... I think the song will be successful because the message resonates with a lot of people who have the same dreams and ambitions: the kid in Wisconsin under the covers with headphones on, the farm boy who sticks out in Alabama, the banker in Kansas, the young couple starting out in New York, the kid in the ghetto in Oakland...”  
  
         John suddenly interrupted.  “Don't mind Paul, he's just twisting the knife in my wound.”  
  
         “What do you mean by that?” Jann asked, ready as ever to make Paul look bad.  
  
         John chuckled.  “I always said a lot of crap in interviews – especially the one with you - about detesting what I called Paul's ‘character songs’, and without intending to, I bloody well wrote one!  Here’s my comeuppance.”  
  
         “He _says_ mean things,” Paul commented drily, “but it’s the _thought_ that counts.”  
  
         “The thoughts are worse than the words, Paul.  I’d take the words if I were you.  Anyway, I wrote the verses, and Paul  
did the middle-8.”  
  
         “I did?” Paul asked, in a lazily surprised tone of voice.  
  
         “I think so,” John said, not so sure now.  “And you wrote some of the music.  And there was another inspiration for the song, one that is less airy fairy.”  
  
         “What’s that?” Jann asked.  
  
         “I started writing this song while I was living in the Dakota with Yoko.  I spent hours every day staring out the window in the Dakota apartment – sitting on the window seat.  I used to see the birds flying by, and I would wish I could be free like them – it’s a romantic view, I know, because birds are actually _working_ when they’re flying; they’re looking for food and whatever.  But to me it looked like more fun than walking.”  
  
         “This was about the time when your marriage to Yoko fell apart.  Was the song in any respect about that?” Jann queried.  
  
         “Well,” John said, “I think we both felt a little trapped in the John ‘n Yoko Thing we’d created, so, yes, I felt trapped and I wanted to be free, and I was working up the nerve to do something about it.”  
  
         “That _was_ all of a sudden, John,” Jann pointed out.  “One minute you and Yoko were writing love songs to each other and extolling your relationship, and then a few months later you dropped the concert idea, and stopped working together, and then a few years later – the divorce.  What happened there?”  
  
         “Nothing dramatic.  We had just pushed that wagon as far as it would go.  It happens in a lot of relationships.”  John had a very unreadable expression on his face, and this confused Jann.  
  
         Jann changed tactics.  “I don’t hear angry songs from you on this album, John.  It is kind of out of character for you to go through what must have been a painful separation and divorce, and then, not to write about it.”  
  
         “I wrote about it a little – _‘Help Me to Help Myself’_ was a kind of pep talk to myself to leave my marriage.  And I did write a really nasty song about Yoko – it was pretty harsh and funny, I thought.  But we didn’t record it.”  
  
         “Why not?” Jann asked.  
  
         “Paul talked me out of it.  He kept saying, “’She’s Sean’s mum’,” John responded.  
  
         Paul piped up.  “Stuff like that is fun to write as a sort of cathartic exercise, but it should never be made public.”  
  
         “Yeah,” John joked, “Paul learned that the hard way…”  
  
         “…And I have the scars to prove it,” Paul laughed.  
  
         Jann saw a hook.  “Did Paul talk you out of recording other songs, John?  Is that why you seem to be pulling your punches?”  
  
         “No,” John said, glaring at Jann.  “You need to move on from the ‘70s, Jann, you’re sounding like a broken record.  _I_ talked _Paul_ out of a few songs, though…”  
  
         “…My ego’s still smarting…” Paul smiled.  
  
         Jann regrouped.  “So how is your relationship with Yoko now, John?”  
  
         “Cordial.  We share custody of Sean.  We each have him for half the year, and we switch off holidays each year.  We don’t talk to or see each other often but we’re cool when we do meet.”  This was a lie.  John never spoke to Yoko, and the two had a great deal of animosity left between them.  But no point in airing _that_ dirty laundry.  
  
         “So, the great love affair came in like a lion, and went out like a lamb?”  Jann asked.  
  
         “Better that than the other way around,” John growled.  He was having a hard time keeping his temper in check.  He seriously wanted to smack Jann right across his cheek.  
  
         “The album is remarkably free of cynicism,” Jann said, changing the subject.  “The closest to that is _However Absurd_.  Paul sings that song.  That’s a very interesting song.  It sounds more like one of your songs, John.  Did you write the lyrics, John?”  
  
         Paul sucked in his breath at the insult, but managed not to show his outrage.  His mind was racing, trying to come up with some response to this insult.  Before he could say anything, John jumped in, clearly biting his lip so he would not snap.  
  
         “Actually, that was a song Paul had been ready to record before we decided to work together,” John said, glaring at Jann.  “I had very little to do with it.”  
  
         “So Paul, what inspired it?  Were you _trying_ to write a more John-like song when you wrote this?”  
  
         Paul took a deep breath, and pinched himself on the wrist.  Having taken a deep breath, he said, “No.  I was writing in my own voice.  What inspired it?  Nothing concrete.  It’s an aspect of growing older that you start to see the paradoxes in life.  Things that seemed obvious and natural when you were younger, suddenly take on a more ambiguous tone.  It also seems absurd that I am 45 years old, and I have a 24 year-old daughter!  How did _that_ happen?”  
  
         John and Jann chuckled along with Paul.  
  
         “This is one of the true collaborations on the album, in that I let John have a crack at the first and third verses because I was struggling to come up with something that expressed the overall point of the song. The second verse and the chorus say it all, essentially, that however absurd it may seem, there's a method to my madness. I don't go in for reading meanings into songs, but this sort of expresses itself clearly.”  
  
         John jumped in with, “Don't know what the fuck he's talking about.”  John paused a moment before explaining. “ _He_ wrote those verses.”  
  
         Paul shrugged and said to John, “You polished ‘em, though.”  
  
         “Let’s talk about _Figure of Eight_.   This is clearly a Paul song.  I guess it’s about you and Linda.”  
  
         John quickly exchanged a look with Paul.  He jumped in.  “It’s not necessarily about Paul and Linda,” John said.  “It’s about any two people who throw their lot in life together when they’re young, and weather the storms over years.  It’s also a great rocker – it’s a vamp, really.  Love the rhythm to it.”  
  
         “It could also work as a song describing how you’re working together again,” Jann tried again.  
  
         Paul said with a half-grin, “No comment.”  
  
         John added with a cheeky grin, “We're only taking questions from adults today.”  A moment later, when Paul's back was turned, John nodded his head ‘yes’.  
  
         John’s effort to deflect Jann didn’t work so well.  “So how did Linda feel about you working with John again, Paul?”  Jann asked, ignoring John’s contribution.  “I note she has been excluded from the recording.”  
  
         Paul made sure his face did not show his anger at the way that question was constructed.  “Linda was very supportive of my decision,” Paul said smoothly.  “And I think she was a little relieved.”  
  
         “Oh?” Jann urged Paul to continue.  
  
         “She never really _wanted_ to be a performer.  She did it for me, so we could be together.”  
  
         “But now the two of you _don’t_ need to be together?”  
  
         “No!  That’s certainly not the message I want you to take away!”  Paul responded, pouring out all the charm he could muster in order to disarm Wenner.  He noted that the man’s eyes blinked in surprise a little at Paul’s flirtatious smile.  _Hmmm.  A new tactic.  Maybe I should pursue this further_ , Paul thought to himself.  “You need to understand, Jann,” Paul said, dropping his voice to a deep, intimate drawl.  He leaned in towards Jann, as if he were taking him into his confidence.  “Linda and I have teenaged children now, and they want a stable life, and don’t want to be dragged all over to hell and gone anymore.  They have friends, boyfriends, and school functions.  Linda and I believe that one of us at least has to be there on the spot for them at all times.”  
  
         Jann felt warmth burning in his lower abdomen.  He had never actually been the recipient of a McCartney charm offensive before, and it was an eye-opening experience.  He cleared his throat and refocused on his job.  
  
         “John, there’s a raunchy song you sing – ‘ _Rough Ride’_.  If I’m not mistaken it sounds like you’re singing about having sex.”  
  
         “It happens sometimes, you know.  I occasionally have sex,” John responded.  Paul snorted, which caused Jann to laugh.  
  
         “What made you write this song, John?”  
  
         “Paul wrote it – most of it.  I sang it, because it suited my voice better,” John said.  
  
         “Well, hmmm, interesting,” Jann stuttered for a while, what’s your story then, Paul?  
  
       “It’s a kind of sequel to ‘ _Two of Us’_ ,” Paul chuckled.  
  
         “Yeah, if that doesn't tell you what it's about, nothing will.”  
  
         Jann was confused, but still fighting.  “Well, Paul, did you know that in gay circles ‘rough ride’ is a euphemism for…”  
  
  
         “Butt-fucking?”  John inserted.  Everyone laughed nervously.  
  
         “ _I_ was going to say anal sex…” Jann corrected.  
  
         “How would we know that, Jann?” John asked with a cheeky grin.  “Unlike _some_ people around here, neither of us hangs out in ‘gay circles.’”  
  
         “What _is_ a ‘gay circle’ anyway?” Paul asked with a fraudulent look of innocence on his face.  
  
         “A modern day maypole dance?”  John assayed.  
  
         Jann chuckled at the silliness, and then said, “The gay clubs in New York are surely going to adopt this as an anthem of sorts.”  
  
         “Hear that, Paulie?”  John asked with loud enthusiasm.  “You’ve written _another_ anthem!  First came, ‘ _Hey Jude’_ , then came ‘ _Let It Be’_ , and now ‘ _Rough Ride’_!  A trifecta!’  
  
         All three men laughed at John’s tomfoolery.  Then Paul said in a quiet, modest voice, “It was only a bit of fun, you know.  It’s fun to play in that swampy funk-rock kind of style every once in a while.  John’s voice was perfect for this song.”  
  
         “The truth is, Paul was too shy to sing it,” John teased.  
  
         Jann moved on.  “ _’Real Love’_ and ‘ _Only Love Remains’_.  These seem to be saying the same thing, only from your individual perspectives.  Is that how you two see it?”  
  
         Paul spoke first.  “ _Only Love Remains_ is mine.  My original lyrics were pretty ordinary, really.  For some reason they seemed recycled.  I didn’t _feel_ they were recycled, they just _sounded_ that way.  The trouble with feelings like the kind of love that establishes itself over many years is that everything you say about it sounds tired and over-used, if you get my meaning.  So I gave John carte blanche to do his worst with these lyrics…”  
  
         John and Jann were laughing.  “I didn’t change much.  Just a line here and there.”  
  
         “And _hey presto_!  The song didn’t sound tired anymore!” Paul smiled to show no hard feelings.  
  
         “John, you sing ‘ _Real Love’_ , but it sounds more like a set of lyrics Paul might write.  Tell me about that song.”  
  
       John thought for a moment before responding.  He didn’t want to make light of the song, because it had such an intense emotional meaning to him.  “What is real love? You might as well have asked me the answer to life, the universe and everything. Which as every good reader knows...  
  
         Paul joined in with John to say, at the same time  “...is 42.”  
John and Paul both laughed at their witticism.  Wenner didn’t get it, but was afraid to look stupid, so he didn’t ask for explication, and laughed too.  
  
       “But seriously,” John said,  “if you are lucky enough to receive the gift of love, you have to treat it like a precious plant. You can't just accept it and leave it in the cupboard or just think it's going to get on by itself. You've got to keep watering it. You've got to really look after it and nurture it.”  
  
         “And I’ve always found that everything is clearer when you're in love,” Paul added.  
  
         “Yes,” John continued, “but that's always been Paul’s and my message going back to ‘All You Need is Love’, and even before that.”  
  
         “Or,” Paul said, “as a great writer I know put it, "Love is the answer, and you know that for sure; love is a flower, you've got to let it grow."  
  
         “There you have it, folks,” John said in a loud fake-announcer voice, “Paul McCharmly proving once again that as usual there's a great woman behind every idiot!”  Again, John and Paul appeared to be excessively amused by their cryptic comments.  Jann was feeling left out.  
  
         John noticed this, and sobered up.   “The song’s about my ideal – what love _should_ be like.  The place you reach after all the other false loves failed,” John explained.  
  
         “Was it originally written for Yoko?”  Jann asked.  
  
         “No.  It was more like ‘ _In My Life’_.  I was writing about an ideal love that would completely fulfill me in every way.  It would be so profound that I wouldn’t need anything or anyone else.”  
  
         “Do you think that is possible?” Jann asked, genuinely interested now in the conversation.  
  
         “I do, yes.  I’m that romantic,” John laughed.  
  
         “This kind of leads us to the next song I want to talk about,  ‘ _Grow Old Along With Me._ ’ John, you sing this, but it sounds more like a Paul song.”  
  
         “You keep saying that!  Stop it!”  John said with a joking sneer.  He then turned to Paul.  “Who wrote this one, babe?  Do you remember?”  
  
         Jann noted the word “babe”, and wondered about it.  
  
         Paul answered, “It was definitely one of yours…”  
  
         “But you rewrote parts…” John added.  
  
         “I don’t think I added much, except the arrangement.”  
  
         “Well, the arrangement _made_ the song, Paul,” John said.  John turned back to Jann.  “The music changed a lot, after Paul got hold of it.  It was a very simple melody with no real middle-8, and Paul finished it…”  
  
         “Who did you write it for, John?” Jann asked.  “Do you have a woman in your life?”  
  
            “No, there wasn’t a special woman at the time I wrote this.  I was writing from a place of longing,” John said.  “I started it when I was still with Yoko, and I’m pretty sure I abandoned it because I knew it wasn’t going to happen – me and Yoko growing old together.”  
  
         “But you finished it _now_?” Jann prompted.  
  
       John was irritated by Jann’s incessant prodding, so he decided to pull his leg a little.  “You know, after I left the Beatles, I sometimes wore a button that said ‘I love Paul.’  People would stop me on the street when they saw it and say, ‘But I thought you hated Paul?’  Things were made a bit more public than I would have liked, sooner than I would have preferred, but this is my answer to that question, in all times and all places.   We’re lifelong friends, and I hope to be in the middle of writing a song with him while I’m on my death bed.  
  
         “You’re making me blush, son,” Paul said, amused by John’s dangerously flirtatious comment.  “I pulled it out of his rejects pile,” Paul then added.  “It’s a really good song.  It doesn’t have to be something torn straight out of a songwriter’s life.  Songs take on a life of their own once they’re born.”  
  
         “Yeah,” John said, chiming in.  “The confessional songs of the early ‘70s:  some were very good, but a lot of them were crap.  A lot of my solo songs from that period were too self-absorbed, and too self-important.  It’s better to write about the human condition, rather than your own, insular _personal_ condition.”  
  
         Jann was distressed to hear this.  “But don’t you think the stark realism of those songs says more about the human condition than writing more generally does?”  
  
         John responded succinctly:  “No.”  
  
         “’Sometimes’ would be a better answer, John,” Paul interjected, much to Jann’s surprise.  “Most of your songs on ‘ _Imagine’_ were intensely personal, but they described a certain mindset or mood many people were in at the time.  The songs resonated.”  
  
         “Precisely!” Jann chimed in, grateful that Paul had resurrected his own personal opinion.  “With the Vietnam War going on, and the political uprisings…”  
  
         John cut him off.  “I wasn’t really writing about Vietnam, Jann, or women’s rights, or worker’s rights.  I was just dabbling in that stuff, and used them as a way to exorcise my own personal anger.”  
  
         A brief silence followed this confession.  Jann quickly regrouped.  “What were you angry about?”  
  
         “The whole end of the Beatles thing,” John responded.  
  
         “That’s an interesting topic we haven’t discussed,” Jann started to say, but John cut him off again.  
  
         “We’d rather not.”  
  
         Jann thought about dropping the subject entirely after he saw the determined set to John’s jaw, but he couldn’t resist putting Paul in an awkward position.  “Paul, John wrote _How Do You Sleep?_ about you…”

 

*****

 

       The words _How Do You Sleep_ echoed in the room for a moment and Paul felt his throat constricting.  How to deal with this?  
  
       But John came immediately to his rescue.  “As I said back then, Jann, I wrote it about him, but also about _me_.  We were in the same boat.”  
  
       Paul chuckled.  “And we were hitting each other over the head with the paddles…”  
  
       Jann laughed at the joke, but was still determined to press the question.    
  
          "The line about 'pretty face' and the line about 'muzak' - those do not appear to be particularly relevant to you, John,"  Jann responded.  
  
          "And they are to _me_?"  Paul asked Jann, a challenging look in his eyes.  
  
          "He's right about the pretty face, at least, Paul, if not the muzak," John said, giving Paul a comforting smile.  
  
           Jann saw Paul pull back from an angry reaction, after John's gentle intervention, and decided to strike while the iron was hot.  
  
      “Paul, do you have any residual resentment over that song?”  He asked, with an ersatz objective expression on his face.  
  
      Paul had stepped back from the precipice, and took a deep breath in order to respond in a calm way.  “John was a git to publish that song.  He intended to hurt and embarrass me, and he succeeded.  But I kept telling myself that hate is not the opposite of love – indifference is.  John had some unfinished business with me, and he chose that way to conclude it.  I wish he hadn’t published it, but he apologized to me afterwards, and I accepted the apology.  After that, it was over, as far as I was concerned.”  
  
       “Yeah,” John said with a grin, “all it took to be forgiven was the apology, and the ‘kiss his ring’ requirement every time we meet.”  The three men laughed.  
  
       Jann moved on to the next song.  “Some of the songs, well, some of them seem a bit cryptic.”  
  
       “How so?”  John asked.  
  
       “Well, like the song you sing together, _You Want It Too_ , for example.  It sounds like two men arguing over one lover, but it isn’t clear.  There are no genders mentioned.”  
  
       John looked at Paul, winked, and said, “Paul’s original lyrics had pronouns in them.  I think he called it ‘ _You_ _Want_ Her _Too_ ’.  But I convinced him to make it gender neutral on all sides, because, see, it doesn’t matter what _we_ think it means, it is meant to be more universal than that.”  
  
       Jann noted the ‘we’ pronoun, and wondered about it.  “But what did this song mean to you when you wrote it – Paul?”  He thought it _must_ be Paul’s song, because it was so infuriatingly abstruse.  
  
       “Life is ambiguous,” Paul responded.  “There are several meanings to everything, and there is a certain joy in that, we’ve always thought.  ‘What does this song mean’ is one of the most frequently asked questions people who have previewed the album have asked us, actually. I believed that the lyrics were unambiguous, but John had an inkling that they'd cause confusion. It is like a little puzzle, and I guess it does the job. But I've decided to let people decide for themselves what ‘it’ is. Whatever you want it to mean, it is.”  
  
     In a stage whisper to Jann, John said, “’It’ is buggering like rabbits.”  
  
       “Oh, great, John, you just spoiled the secret.” Paul pouted.  
  
       “I never was good at keeping secrets,” John admitted sheepishly.  
  
       Paul turned to Jann wearing a deadpan face, as if he were a frustrated husband with a gossipy wife.  “He’s a fuckin’ sieve.”  
  
       Jann did not like feeling the fool, so his tone toughened as he faced Paul.  “The thing is, Paul, its one thing to be coy and leave innuendos, but another thing to actually say something meaningful in a song.”  
  
       John jumped in before Paul could respond.  “I take it you don’t like the song, Jann.  Sorry ‘bout that.  I thought it was pretty clever when I wrote the lyrics…” he purred.  Paul heard John take credit for the song lyrics, and smiled to himself.  
  
       “ _You_ wrote it John?  I thought – well, Paul sang the lead.”  
  
       “His voice sounded better on the lead, but _I_ sang the naughty bits,” John replied.  “Just like in _A Little Help From My Friends_.”  
  
       “I _did_ write the music,” Paul volunteered truthfully.  “I wanted it to sound like anxiety.”  
  
       “I played the devil, and Paul played the angel.  I didn’t think of it so much as two men fighting over the same lover.  I saw it as one man arguing with himself – his inner angel and his inner devil – about giving in to temptation,” John explained at greater length.  
  
       Although this was an interesting suggestion, Jann still felt stymied.  This was not going the way he had expected it to go.  
  
       John saw Jann’s frustration, and decided to stroke him a little.  “We were just exploring the nature of temptation, Jann.  What the temptation actually _is_ wasn’t important to us.  Like I said, everyone has a secret they hold close to him about the things that tempt them.  If we were too specific about what the secret is, then it would keep the listener from identifying with it.”  
  
       Jann was grateful for an answer with meat on it, and so he coached his face to look thoughtful and enlightened by John’s remark.   Paul saw this and shared a secret smile with himself.  John was so full of bullshit.  It was starting to be _fun_ , this interview.  
  
       “Let’s move on to a very controversial cut – _She is a Friend of Dorothy’s_.  In New York ‘70s and ‘80s slang, this refers to a gay man or lesbian.  Are you just having us on here, John?”  
  
       “I wrote the demo of this song in the late ‘70s when everything was disco, disco, disco,” John volunteered.  “I’d been to a few of the transsexual bars with Elton John and Harry Niilson earlier in the ‘70s, and I had a sense of what goes on in them.  You might remember – this was almost 10 years ago now – about the Club Kids, and the transgender bending that was going on.  In the early ‘80s it really exploded.  Anyway, this was just a fun song I wrote at the time, channeling that phenomenon.  Brian and Daniel really got into this song, and they had probably the most influence over this song than on most of the others, except _A Love for You_. I dunno, I always felt comfortable around transvestites…”  
  
       Paul chimed in with a cheeky grin, “Comfortable enough to let one—“  
  
       John slapped his hand over Paul’s mouth.  “Not for print, Macca. It'll be in the biography, readers!  But, anyway, one night when I was in L.A. during what I used to call my ‘lost weekend’...  
  
       “Which wasn't all that lost…” Paul interrupted again, much to John’s feigned irritation.     
  
       “Yeah, anyway, it was one in the morning or something, on a Saturday, and I was bumbling home past some clubs. And I began to get the feeling someone was behind me, about to overtake me. So I turned around and saw this bloke who looked like a street person about to pounce, wanted me wallet or something, but this tall Spanish kid, standing in the shadow of a storefront, in leotards and a knee-length skirt and three inch heels, comes along, and belts my stalker right across the fuckin' chops. Just fuckin' wailed on the guy, and sent him running. I thought he was a girl at first, what with the bright red lips, the fake lashes, the rouge on his cheeks, but then I took in the shoulders and the jawline.  And the tattoos. He had big tattoos on his arm. One said 'Never conform' and the other said 'Get your life', which I took to mean that you don't have to settle for what life gives you; you're allowed to demand the life you want. And there was just this air of mystique about him, that quality that normally I only found in women. What I saw looking at him was that drag queens essentially are, and always have been, not faux women, but something... different. Unidentifiable, and not ashamed of that fact either. I thanked him in my drunken stupor, and I asked him his name. He said, ‘Just call me a friend of Dorothy's’."  
  
       Paul chimed in.  “We later learned that they call gay and lesbian people that as a reference to the Cowardly Lion in ‘The Wizard of Oz’, Bert Lahr, with the whole effete opera singer, mincing, prancing bit.”  
  
       “As far as I'm concerned, lion's right,” John said, “but not so cowardly. Unless it's Noel, in which case, well, it's his bloody name, innit?  So to sum up, this song is about the queens, and in my eye, they truly are queens:  undefined, and unable to be defined, royal, regal, and bloody good.”  
  
       “Brian and Daniel really got into this cut,” Paul added more prosaically, “they gave it a real New-Wavy feel, and I think I wrote the middle-8; I think I added a different tone to the transition, too.  Didn’t I?”  Paul turned to John for confirmation.  
  
       “Yeah, between Paul, Brian and Daniel, I hardly recognize the music I originally wrote, but I have to say it was a very happy collaboration.  We’re filming a music video of that song – along with a few others in the next few weeks.  That’s a fun song, all the way through.”  
  
       Briefly stumped, Jann started again.  “The reason why I was asking about the last two songs so much is, well, there are some really buried rumors in the London music scene about – about the two of you.  I heard them from a few British rockers at the Hall of Fame induction a few weeks ago.”  
  
       “ _Rumors_ , Jann?  No kidding!  It seems like there have _always_ been rumors about us,” John said cheerfully.  He then turned to Paul and said, “Bet it was Mick Jagger.  He’s such a gossip.”  
  
       “Well, is it not true the two of you are living together?  That’s the story I heard from more than one person.”  
  
       “David Bowie too,” John said to Paul in a stage whisper.  
  
       Paul spoke, giving John an amused glance.  “I live with Linda and our children in Sussex,” he said quietly, “but while we’ve been working on the album, I’ve spent part of my time at John’s house.  It has been more convenient to work together that way.”  
  
       “People will _talk_ , Jann.  That’s what people _do_ ,” John added.  “It seems that _some_ people haven’t got anything better to do with their lives.”  
  
       Jann nodded fatalistically.  A latent homosexual himself, he was sorry to hear this answer.  He had vaguely hoped they’d “come out” in this interview.  But maybe there wasn’t any “coming out” to do.  He grimly persevered.  
  
       “Well, people have been suggesting that you might be a bisexual for years, John,” Jann said.  “Is there any truth to that?”  
  
       “Who are these ‘people’ anyway?” John asked playfully.  He then grew more serious.  “I have said many times that I don’t have a problem with homosexuality.  I was a terrible homophobe when I was a kid, but that was before I met Brian Epstein, after which I learned that he was just a person like any other person.  It took years, but I finally began to see the hypocrisy surrounding intolerance, and by the time I was 26 I was in complete sympathy with people who make that choice or who have those preferences.   It seems that by saying things like this I have left the door open for people to assume I must be at least bisexual.  I mean, what straight guy in his right mind would say nice things about queers?”  
  
       Jann nodded in fierce agreement with this speech.  He didn’t notice that John had not really answered his question.  John’s face was closed off, and Jann knew there was no point in pursuing the line of questioning any further.  “Two other songs that seem to be mirror images of each other – _Now and Then_ by you, John, and _My Brave Face_ by Paul.  Both songs seem to be about a lost lover, and how the protagonists deal with the remaining longing for each other.   Paul’s song is upbeat, but it does a brilliant job of being stridently upbeat, as if in deliberate contrast with the lyrics.  And John your song is very wistful, sad.  Do you see the two songs as being related, or do you think this as a figment of my imagination?”  Jann smiled as he finished his long question, to sweeten the pot.  
  
       “That’s very observant of you,” John said slowly, stoking Jann’s ego just a little bit, but also thinking that it would be a mistake to underestimate how well Jann knew his stuff.  “I agree – both songs are addressing the subject of dealing with a lost love.  We’ve both been down that road before, of course, as has most everyone over the age of 15, and it is kind of interesting the different ways we approach the subject.  But you know, Jann, that this is how we all are.  We all get through these things in our own way.”  
  
       Jann decided to recap.  “So Paul approaches it by putting on a fake front to face the world, and you, John, sit down and think it through intellectually?”  
  
       Both John and Paul sat in an appalled silence at the blatant insult Jann had just leveled at Paul.   At first Jann didn’t realize they were insulted, but slowly he began to get the drift.  
  
       “I didn’t mean that literally, of course, I’m just talking about the lyrics of the songs,” Jann said weakly.  
  
       John was desperately trying not to explode and say something he knew he would regret.  Paul recovered first.  
  
       “I wouldn’t take any of these songs too literally Jann,” he said softly.  “But, just for argument’s sake, I don’t think it is such a wrong approach to suck up your pride after a loss and then force yourself to face the world.  You have to go on, no matter what life throws at you, and I think there is a certain dignity in being able to move on without acting out publicly.”  
  
       Paul’s calm riposte was met with an uncomfortable silence.  John wanted so badly to reach over and squeeze Paul’s hand.  _Or his thigh.  Yeah, his dreamy thigh_.  A wicked smile played around the edges of his mouth, and he made nervous eye contact with Paul, who winked back at him to show that he was okay.  _But maybe he wasn’t okay_.  Maybe it was just his _brave face_.  John chuckled a bit to himself, and then turned to Jann.  
  
       “Just because I wrote a song that sounds like I am rational and together at a time of loss, doesn’t mean that I _am_ rational and together when I actually lose someone I love.  To the contrary, I usually go berserk.”  John grinned to show ‘everything’s cool.’  
  
       Jann swallowed.  Why was this so difficult?  He’d never interviewed these two men together, and he had never interviewed John when he was allied with Paul.  They were like an impenetrable and mighty fortress together, although they had some faux-friendly curb appeal.  
  
       John, again, decided he had gone far enough with his teasing, and assayed a serious response.  “For me, _Now and Then_ was one of the hardest songs to write. For the longest time it had a chorus, but was almost totally lacking in verses. I think it's something about a melancholy melody, you just don't want to go back to it because it gives you the feeling you associate with that air.  But at the same time I didn't want to let go of it for some reason.”  
  
       “We went through a couple of other titles for it as well,” Paul said.  “We tried ‘Miss You,’ and then remembered some other bloke, Mick, I think his name was, had already done that.”  Paul’s face was dressed in a cheeky grin.  
  
       John added, “And for a while it went by ‘I Don't Want to Lose You’ as well. The track really didn't come together until Paul made some suggestions.”  
  
       “And _My Brave Face_?”  Jann prompted.  
  
       Paul spoke up first.  “Having what amounts to two partners in life is not easy. In essence, I have this incredible emotional domestic bond with my wife, and then John and I have a rather intense creative bond.  It seems like I’m always pissing someone off no matter what I do, and I guess the empty table in the lyrics was my analogy for what it sometimes feels like.”  
  
       “Yeah,” John pointed out with a mischievous slant to his eyes, “I added the pillows line, because sometimes when he’s at my place I think he’s pretending his pillows are Linda.”  
  
       “Hey, that's my _wife_ you're talking about, you cheeky cunt!”  Paul pretended to be angry, "Not to mention my _pillows_!"   
  
          John cracked up, followed by Paul.  
  
       “My main contribution to this song,” John said, moving past Paul’s outburst and addressing Jann directly,  “was to sneak in the ‘ _Two of Us’_ reference under the TV dinner line. That way, people could debate endlessly whether it was about me and him or Linda and him or both.  I love to get them going.”  
  
       “As if a song has to be literally true,” Paul grumbled under his breath.  
  
       Jann cleared his throat and moved on to surer ground.  “ _India/India_.  This is a fantastic piece of work.  It’s like you each wrote about your India/Maharishi experience and then merged the songs into one.”   
  
       “Yeah - that was really odd, Jann.  I had been writing a song called _India_ in the late ‘70s, when we were thinking of doing a play based on Yoko’s and my relationship.  That of course went to hell in a hand-basket once we fell apart.  But Paul had been working on a song called _India_ starting in the early ‘80s without knowing about mine.  He had also written something back in India called _Consciously Conscious_ which he dragged out of one of his old notebooks, and it became the glue that held the two song parts together.”  
  
       “It was a bit like _Day in the Life_ , the way we combined our songs into one,” Paul added.  “But once we started merging the two songs, both songs changed quite a bit, and it turned out to be its own thing.”  
  
       John said, “After I left Yoko I tried rewriting it to make it more about finding yourself where you live, as opposed to thinking you can find it in some exotic ‘other’ place.”  
  
       “It’s really a remarkable piece.  It’s pretty long – 7 minutes – so it may not get much air time, but it is a truly great piece,” Jann said sincerely.  
  
       Paul felt Jann deserved a better explanation after that sincerely nice comment.  “John and I were both in the same sort of mindset, reflecting on our time in India back in the late Sixties. It was actually George Harrison's wife, Pattie, who had heard Maharishi was coming to town. And she said we should all go... I was just overdoing it in the Sixties. I was just not very centered and I was looking for something. I think we all were.”  
  
       John was heard murmuring his assent.  
  
       “So,” Paul continued, “we heard that Maharishi was going to have a meeting and give a lecture. So that was the first time I'd heard about meditation. It was very interesting. It was very calming and it seemed like something that was worth trying. Maharishi put it very well. He made it seem simple; he made it seem very attractive.”  
  
       John interjected with enthusiasm, “But the point of the trip, as I see it, and maybe Paul will disagree, is that we were looking for something in India that we already knew on some level was within ourselves. We were just putting a key in the lock and opening the door, so that when our hearts called us home, we'd know what to do if we wanted to find that place again.”  
  
       Paul sang a line from the song: " _India, forever and ever / Where are you now.._."  
  
       John joined in harmony: " _In my heart, forever and ever / I'll get back to you somehow_."  
  
       “Do you still mediate?” Jann asked.  
  
       “Yeah,” John said,  “now and then, to coin a phrase.”  
  
       “In moments of madness it has helped me find moments of serenity,” Paul said.  
  
        “Well, aren't we a poet fucking laureate,” John responded, taking a playful swat at Paul's arm.  
  
       Smiling in a paternal way, Jann moved on to the next question.  “I guess this brings us to the last song, _A Love For You._ Paul, this one was yours, right?  
  
       “Yes, I did originally write _A Love For You_ ,” Paul said.  “I wrote that back in '71 for _Ram._ We did two different mixes of it, but it never fit in with that album. I'm not one to let my back catalogue sit and rot, and neither is John, so we pulled it out and said, ‘Okay, what can we do with you, then?’  John’s contributions really finished it.”  
  
     John piped up.  “We tried singing it in harmony, we tried it with me solo, we tried it with Paul solo, as a rocker, as a ballad, in a box with a fox, in a house with a mouse...”  
  
       “And finally,” Paul continued,  “I was listening to the original vocal tracks from both mixes, and John said, ‘They're good, you know. Why don't we just keep those, and then add a new backing?’ So we picked out which lines and phrases were best from each mix, and we spliced them together to arrive at the perfect vocal. Then John did his fiddly bits in the background.”  
  
       “The sound of the music, though, is all Brian and Dan,” John said. “They got way more experimental than I ever got with Phil, or than we ever got with George. Paul had picked up some Fela Kuti stuff in Lagos during _Band on the Run_ , and Brian's nuts about that stuff, especially the style where multiple rhythms sort of come together on the same track.”  
  
       Paul added, “So, sort of like what Brian did on _Once in a Lifetime_ with Talking Heads, when it came time to do the band tracks, he said, ‘Okay, now, you guys aren't going to be in the studio at the same time for this. We'll be recording overdubs of different rhythmic and musical ideas, but for this to work, you have to be independent of each other, blind to what the other one did on tape.’ I was a little skeptical, but John really wanted to give it a shot, so we said yeah, and we did it that way.”  
  
       John spoke up again.  “And what he did was, for each instrument, he used a different rhythm count. For some of us, he started on ‘3’; for some of us, he started on ‘1.’  It gave the song a funny balance within it. It really has two centers of gravity: his ‘1’ and our ‘1.’ Then he exaggerated the rhythm imbalance in the mix a bit, and faded between these different independent ideas at different parts of the song. It's one of his favorite producing techniques.  He calls it ‘Oblique Strategies’.”  
  
       “The synthesizers and the Hammond organ are him as well,” Paul added. “And that's him singing the nonsense sound blocks behind the chorus. If one had to pinpoint the ‘Brian Eno produced this album’ track, that's the one.”  
  
       Jann broke in to remark, “This song, again, is about a love that couldn’t be – that somehow was thwarted.  It seems to be a major theme throughout this album, actually.  Thwarted love, dealing with the repercussions of it.”  
  
       “Now that you mention it, I see your point,” John said agreeably.  “But we didn’t plan it that way.  Of the song demos and fragments we had between us, these seemed to be the most promising ones.”  
  
       “And you don’t think that this in any way is based – at least in part – on your estrangement during the ‘70s?”  Jann decided to come right out and ask it.  
  
       John jumped in.  “How life impacts our music is all a blur to us, Jann.  When Paul and I get into a zone, we really don’t pay attention to those kind of details.  It just _is_ , if you get my drift.”  
  
       “That’s new for you two though, isn’t it?  Different from in the Beatles when you each wrote your own songs?”  
  
       “Oh, now you’re talking about all that crap I said in our interview together in 1971,” John said to Jann recklessly, knowing that the infamous 1971 _RS_ Lennon interview had _made_ Jann’s career, and put _RS_ on the map.  Wenner always treated that interview as if it were canon; to this very day no other interpretation of John Lennon was allowed on the pages of _RS_.   John waited a beat before adding, “You didn’t really believe all that self-serving shite I served up, did you Jann?  Re-reading it later I was embarrassed.  It was so obviously a load of claptrap.  Even the egregious crap I spewed when _Double Fantasy_ came out doesn’t sound as ridiculous as the stuff I was saying back in ’71.”  
  
       Jann felt utterly windblown by John’s comment.  He felt the ground shifting under his feet.  Help came from an unlikely direction.  
  
       “There is some truth to what Jann was saying, though John,” Paul said.  “In our first partnership, we were very competitive, and to some extent I think it held us back from doing our best work.”  Paul turned to Jann. “This time ‘round we decided to avoid that pitfall.”  
  
       “Yeah, that’s true,” John conceded.  He, too, turned back to Jann.  “It’s been great working with Paul again, because on the one hand we have so much experience of working together that we can read each other’s minds – our muses are merged – whereas, on the other hand, it’s all new.  We have come to it after a break with fresh ideas, and a new way to approach our process.”  
  
       Jann was unsatisfied.  He hadn’t really gotten anything surprising or unique out of this interview, as he had grown used to getting from John, solo.  _Maybe that’s the problem.  He’s being controlled by McCartney. That’s an interesting angle._  
  
       “When I interviewed you in 1971, John, you said that you had been on a boat called ‘Paul’, and then you said you had moved over to a boat called ‘Yoko’.  Are you back on the boat called ‘Paul’ again?”  Jann had a smirk on his face, which Paul correctly interpreted to be directed at him, and not at John.  
  
       “No, Jann, this time the boat is called ‘John ‘n Paul’.”  His face lit up in a silly grin.  
  
       Jann ignored the quip.  “Is it fair to say, John, that you are heavily influenced on an emotional and creative level by whatever partner you’re with?”  
  
       John was almost tripped up by that question.  He actually stopped and thought it out thoroughly before he answered it. “Yes, that’s fair to say.  But isn’t that true of all of us?  What is the point of having a partner, if you’re not going to be heavily influenced by him?”  
  
       “You could ask me the same question,” Paul jumped in.  “John heavily influences me, and so does Linda.  Is there something wrong with that?”  
  
       Jann saw that both men were staring at him, daring him to argue.  He smiled in silent surrender.  “No, nothing wrong.  But I’d like to explore the depth and breadth of that influence if you’d allow me.”  He gave both men his most winning and trustworthy smile.  
  
       John laughed.  “You can _ask_ whatever you want.  Whether we answer or not is another question entirely.”  
  
       “Fair enough,” Jann agreed.  “It’s clear you have made great strides in mending your friendship and your partnership.  How does Paul influence you the most, John?”  
  
       “Musically, of course.”  John had purposely evaded the personal question by answering a professional one.  “He’s a fuckin’ genius when it comes to music, instruments and arrangements.  I’ll write some clever little tune, and by the time he’s done with it, it is transformed into a lush, musical landscape.”  
  
       “But John’s words _sound_ like music to me, so I never feel as though I had come up with the music myself.  Does that make any sense?”  Paul was looking intensely at Jann, and appeared to sincerely want an answer to his question.  
  
       “ _Yeeesss_ , you mean that when you read John’s lyrics, you can hear the music at the same time?”  Jann repeated.  
  
       Paul nodded in agreement.  
  
       “ _He_ can hear it, but _I_ sure as hell can’t!”  John joked.  “If I could hear the bloody music, what would I need _him_ for!”  
  
       “Paul, I assume you are going to tell me that John’s greatest influence on you is with respect to your lyrics.  I notice they are far sharper and more crisp on this album then they generally were on your solo albums.”  
  
       John looked as though he was going to say something, but Paul squeezed his knee against John’s thigh to warn him off.  Paul said slowly, “No, I wasn’t going to say that.  John influences me in the editing process the most.  All the lyrics are mine; he just helps me sort the wheat from the chaff.  Sometimes he suggests a change, and when he does, he’s always right.  But mainly I see John as a trusted sounding board and editor.”  
  
       “And personally, John, Paul as your friend?  How does he most influence you?”  
  
       “He makes me a nicer person, I think.  Or maybe all he does is leaven the atmosphere so other people don’t notice how harsh I can be.”  
  
       Paul gave John a curious look.  He had no idea John had that impression of him.  Jann noted Paul’s expression and realized that John’s answer must be true, because it was a complete surprise to Paul.  
  
       “Paul?  Same question.”  
  
       Paul was stumped.  John had such a profound influence on him in every way that it was hard to single out just one thing.  He finally settled on something.  “John didn’t make me a risk-taker.  I am a risk-taker by nature.  But there is a part of me that wants to live up to others’ expectations – to please them - and that would mean I would sometimes avoid risks I might actually want to take. John has always influenced me to forget what people think, and take the risks I’m inclined to take anyway.  If he hadn’t done that for me, I might be teaching maths and English in a prep school, and conducting the school choir on my off time.”  
  
       Jann and John both laughed at the image.  Jann felt something that surprised him.  It was a fugitive feeling of affection and admiration for Paul McCartney.  Who knew the ‘pretty face’ had at least _some_ self-awareness?  He seemed to know that he had this streak of mediocrity in him, and that he needed John to fend it off.  
  
       “So, you mentioned that you are doing some music videos.  Are you also going to do a concert tour?” Jann asked.  
  
       “Yes,” John said definitively, surprising Paul.  
  
       “We are?” Paul asked.  
  
       “Yes.”  John declared.  
  
       “This is the first _I’m_ told…” Paul mumbled.       
  
       “When will this be?”  Jann asked eagerly, glad for some kind of a scoop.  
  
       “You’re asking _me_?” Paul responded.  
  
       “Obviously, Paul and I have to work that out still.”  
  
       “John,” Jann said, preparing to wind down the interview.  “Paul has his personal life all tucked away and secure.  How about you?  How do you see your private life playing out?”  
  
       “I’ve had two failed marriages, Jann.  I don’t think I’m the marrying kind.  I doubt I’ll marry again, but you never know.”  
  
       “So, you’re playing the field then?”  
  
       “So to speak,” was John’s cryptic response.  
  


*****

  
  
     “Well, that wasn’t too bad, was it?”  John was facing Paul across a dinner table in one of their favorite restaurants, where they had repaired after the interview with Wenner was over.  
  
       Paul shrugged and made a small mewing face.  “It’s never the actual interview that is the problem,” he finally said.  “It’s how Wenner _edits_ it, and the _spin_ he puts on it.  I don’t have a good feeling about that.”  
  
       John thought about that for a moment and nodded his agreement.  “Yeah, so many times I’ve walked away from an interview feeling I’d nailed it, and then I’d read it when it was published, and I’d be, ‘did I say that?’”  Both men laughed.  
  
       “People hear what they want to hear, is what I’ve learned about it,” Paul said softly, sitting back in his chair as the waiter arrived to deliver the food.         
  
       After the waiter had gone, John lowered his voice and leaned in towards Paul.  “He was kind of poking around about our relationship, wasn’t he?  Mentioning our living situation…”  
  
       Paul sighed and nodded.  “Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.  But he is too canny to say it outright.  His lawyers won’t let him.  But I wouldn’t be surprised to see a lot of innuendo.”  
  
       “ _’Rough Ride’_ ,” John said.  “That was a tricky one.  I honestly didn’t know that ‘rough ride’ was a euphemism used by gays, did you?”  
  
       Paul laughed.  “Not the slightest idea.  I just thought it sounded good and raunchy, to go with the music.  You know, the alliteration... I wish someone had mentioned this to us before we released it.”  
  
       “I wouldn’t put it past Jann to just make that alleged slang meaning up, to see if he could get us to reveal something,” John grumbled.  
  
       Paul had the last word on the subject:  “Let’s hope so.  Because if it is true, we’re gonna rue the day we recorded that song.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations are made for the release of their new album, and John and Paul choose an unorthodox method of dealing with it all...

         The more John thought about the Wenner interview, the more he worried about it.  During the interview, John had chosen his loyalty to Paul over his usual habit of petting and manipulating Jann, and as a result he had not given Jann a good interview.  When Jann didn’t have anything to work with, he could be nasty and sarcastic.  John knew this in his bones, and it worried him a lot.  He began to fixate on this, and it bled into his confidence about the review the album would get as a result.  
  
         This concern about the album review led John to think about how horrible it would be if the album turned out to be a bust.  When it was a theoretical possibility, John had been sanguine about poor reviews and poor sales.  Now that the issue was real, as opposed to theoretical, the reviews and sales became far more important to him.   He had worked himself into quite a state before he found the wherewithal to broach the subject with Paul.  
  
         Paul, meanwhile, was quietly going through much the same kind of crisis of confidence.  He didn’t want to show this fear to John, who was already a nervous wreck, so he only could talk about it with Linda.  As usual, she would buck him up with the same pep talks she’d always given him:  _you’re the artist, they’re a bunch of wannabe hacks.  You have an audience who loves what you do, and you have an obligation to your own talent to develop it and share it with that audience.  The reviews would come and go, and would not be remembered after a few years, but the music would go on and on…_  
  
         So, it wasn’t really a surprise to Paul when John raised the subject with him one dull January day, as they sat at their kitchen table in Maida Vale.  The album was going to be released in two weeks.  The reviews were written but not yet published; the same with the _RS_ interview.  The pre-release and post-production work was all done.  Their manager was lining up some publicity events and interviews for early March, but neither John nor Paul had fully agreed to do them.  They wanted to wait and see how the album was received, first, before committing.  They had filmed some music videos – of all absurd things – for a few of their songs in the previous two weeks.  Apparently, no one was allowed to record anymore unless they also were prepared to make jackasses of themselves on video. They had only themselves to blame.  The Beatles had been the first to do music videos, back in 1967 - for _Strawberry Fields_ and _Penny Lane_.  And then there had been their long-form music video, _Magical Mystery Tour_. The critics hadn’t understood it back then.  It was all way too far ahead of its time.  _These had been Paul’s ideas, of course_ , John thought.  _The guy was a marketing genius_.  
  
         Paul was stirring his tea and lost in his thoughts when John suddenly announced,  
  
         “I don’t want to be here when the album is released.”  
  
         Paul looked up, struggling to bring himself back from his thoughts and into this weird pronouncement.  “So where do you want to be?” he asked, confused.  
  
         “Somewhere unreachable.  Where no one can touch us.”  
  
         Paul looked at John with concern.  “What’s up?” he finally asked.  
  
         “Let’s go away somewhere, and just stay there for the first few weeks after the album’s release.”  John was fired up by this new idea.  
  
         “Not very realistic,” Paul pointed out carefully.  “But I understand the feeling.  I’d like to be an ostrich, too.  But it’s a new album, and we’re expected to be there, standing behind it, and pitching it.”  
  
         “Says who?”  John asked aggressively.  “We don’t have to do it just because it is expected of us.  It’s not in our contract.”  This was true.  Paul had made sure that the contract said that any public relations, concert tours or other promotional events would be done only if John and Paul both agreed to it.  
  
         “It is generally thought that when you release an album and you don’t do the promotion – well, it is generally accepted to mean that you believe the album is crap.  That isn’t the message we want to send, is it?”  Paul was watching John’s face closely as he spoke.  
  
         “We make our own rules.  We always have.  Why should it be different now?  It was ‘generally accepted’ that singers didn’t write songs, they just sang them.  And it was ‘generally accepted’ that there would be only one lead singer per group.  And it was ‘generally accepted’ that Northern English groups didn’t get record contracts.  And it was ‘generally accepted’ that pop stars didn’t speak their minds or talk back to the press, and it was ‘generally accepted’ that a pop song could not be longer that 3 ½ minutes, and it was ‘generally accepted’ that you couldn’t release an album without a tour behind it, and it was…”  
  
         “Ok, ok, I get the point,” Paul chuckled.  “But it really is a risky strategy.”  
  
         “I don’t want to know, Paul.  I don’t want to know about the reviews, or the articles, or the record sales…”  
  
         “ _Ever?”_ Paul asked, his amusement written all over his face.  
  
         “No, of course not.  But, say, two weeks after the album is released, once the dust is settled, _then_ I can sit down and hear the information.  And we can decide how to deal with it at that point.”  
  
         Paul found the idea strangely appealing.  Ever since the Beatles ended, Paul had hated the release dates of his solo work.  He had been so badly brutalized by reviewers for so long, he had forgotten how much fun the Beatles’ release dates had been.  Paul no longer had that youthful, overweening confidence in the results of his labors.  
  
         “So, what’s your plan, then?” Paul asked idly, signaling that he was willing to consider the idea.  
  
         “Let’s pack up the family and go somewhere remote – no TV, no radio, no newspapers – and just enjoy a 3-week vacation.”  
  
         “I’m not sure I can stand not knowing what’s happening,” Paul said honestly.  
  
         “Well, if you need to know, you can call our manager and find out.  Just don’t tell me unless it is good news.  If it’s bad news, I’ll find out soon enough.”  
  
         Paul considered this.  John’s idea included Linda and his children, which he was grateful for.  He needed to have Linda with him at “carve up time.”  And, truly, if something occurred that required his presence, he would find out through his manager, and he could fly to London and take care of it himself.  
  
         “Let me talk to Linda about it,” Paul said finally.  “If she’s okay with it, then I’m okay with it.  We’d have to take Stella and James out of school for a bit.”  
  
         John felt a pang.  It had been four months since the Nigel Affair had been concluded, but Paul had not really been the same towards John ever since.  Oh, he was the same Paul John had known for 30 years, but he was not the vulnerable, wholly trusting Paul John had gotten to know in the weeks leading up to the blow-up over Nigel.  Paul had instantly climbed back in to his protective shell.  Worse, the whole affair had served to cause Paul to be even closer to and more protective of Linda, and John was again left firmly in the second-class lover position.  
  
         Paul was talking again, and John forced himself to listen.  “Of course, our manager, our reps, our producers and the record company are all going to have a collective conniption fit,” Paul chuckled.  “Who’s gonna tell ‘em?”  
  
         This was a rhetorical question, as far as John was concerned.  In John’s mind, of course Paul was going to tell them.  That was Paul’s job in their dynamic.  Paul knew this, of course, but there was no harm in hoping that maybe just this once John would do the dirty work.  But, looking up, Paul realized immediately, _no such luck_.  John was grinning at him in that sarcastic way of his, and so Paul nodded in weary acceptance.  This was his row to hoe, and he knew it.   
  


*****

  
  
        The reaction from the management and record company contingents had been just as bad as Paul had predicted.  He had put together a telephone conference with everybody all at once to announce his and John’s decision.  All hell immediately broke loose.  Paul allowed all the howling and moaning to go on for as long as it needed to, as he patiently waited for the anguish to slowly die out.  Then he pronounced: “When we’re back from our holiday, we’ll all meet again to discuss our promotional strategy.  In the meantime, you can make good use of the music videos we’ve done.” His voice was firm and final.  No one dared to argue with Paul when he adopted that tone, so they all rang off.   No doubt they were all scrambling to do what they could to manage the PR nightmare of releasing a major record without the artists to promote it.  _They were all going to be eaten alive by the press_ …  
  


*****

  
  
        George Martin had graciously offered up his island retreat on Montserrat for their combined use, and so – a week later - it was to that Caribbean paradise that they all headed:  John, Sean, (Julian would fly in later with his girlfriend), Paul, Linda, Heather, her boyfriend, Mary, Stella and James, and – a surprise guest invited by Linda with John’s tepid assent – May Pang.  Privately, neither Paul nor John were thrilled with May’s presence, because it would now make it almost impossible for them to spend significant alone time together.  Or, at least, not the kind of  ‘alone time’ they wanted and needed.  Consequently, John had gone exploring almost as soon as they got there.  Paul had been there before with his family back when John was still in New York, but it was John’s first visit.  He did discover that there was a pool house used as a dressing room and lounge area, that John thought would be promising.   It was by no means ideal, but it would have to do.  
  
         Once they’d chosen their respective rooms, the island’s remoteness and the balmy weather began to work its charm.  John and Paul were sitting on a sunny balcony, looking down on turquoise waters through gently waving palm trees.  They could hear Linda putting away groceries in the kitchen and engaging in conversation with her daughters and May through the open balcony door.  
  
         “This is the life,” John said, stretching his legs out on the padded footstool in front of him.  He was holding an iced tea, a la Linda McCartney (it had a touch of rum in it).  
  
         “That’s a cliché,” Paul mumbled.  He had placed a magazine over his tilted face and had been dozing.  “Say something more clever.”  
  
         John laughed.  “I’m not really clever, you know. I’ve been faking it all these years.”  
  
         “Yeah, I heard that the ‘ _life is what happens to you_ ’ quote came from some bloke writing in the _Reader’s Digest_ …”  
         
         “Fuck you,” John chortled, and he reached over and grabbed the magazine off of Paul’s face and then used the magazine as a swatter on Paul’s arm before throwing it on to Paul’s lap.  After a dignified silence John added, “I never read the _Reader’s Digest_ in my life.”  Paul snorted, and placed the magazine back over his face.  
  
         A few moments later, Linda came out and joined them.  
         
         “Where’s May?” John asked idly.  
  
         “She’s gone to unpack and then she has some work to do.”  
  
         “ _Work_?” John asked.  
  
         “Yeah, there’re a few things she has to finish before she can enjoy herself.”  
  
         The three of them sat in a semi-circle.  John and Linda engaged in a _sotto voce_ conversation, as Paul drifted off to sleep.  
  
         “How have you been, John.  _Really_ ,” Linda asked.  She was still quietly resentful of John’s shabby treatment of Paul in the whole Nigel episode, but was trying to get over it for Paul’s sake.   Other than their joint summit meeting over Paul’s reaction to George’s lawsuit a few months earlier, John had not really spoken privately to Linda since before the whole Nigel imbroglio, so he wasn’t sure where he stood with her.  He was grateful that she seemed to be interested in his well being, even if it was only to be polite.  He wasn’t ready to unburden himself to her on a personal level – how could he, in any case? – so he chose to interpret it to mean, _how do you feel about the album’s release?_  
  
         “I’m extremely nervous about the album,” he said honestly.  “It’s like I don’t have faith in my taste any more.  The last decade has been rough on my ego.”  
  
         Linda nodded, but was thinking to herself that it had been much rougher on _Paul’s_ ego than John’s.  She knew this wasn’t fair, since she had asked him how _he_ felt, and he was just answering her question.   But John had a long way to go before he made it back into Linda’s good graces, and Linda had to keep reminding herself that he really wasn’t an enemy.  He was a flawed man whose method of making himself look bigger was to make others look smaller.  Still, he had a lot of redeeming qualities, Paul adored him, and she knew she had to begin to let her bitterness go.  
  
         “I’ll tell you what I tell Paul, because he feels just as nervous about it as you do.  _You’re_ the one who has the talent.  It isn’t as if these critics know how to even _sing_ a song, much less _write_ one that anyone would want to listen to.  Long after their little opinions have faded, your work will still be there.  It has stood the test of time.”  
  
         “I didn’t know Paul was nervous too,” John said, having honed in on that part of Linda’s comments to the exclusion of the rest.  
  
         Linda looked at John with surprise.  “Of course he is.  Do you have any idea how contentious and nasty the reviewers have been to him since he left the Beatles?  How do you _suppose_ he feels about it?”  
  
         “He always looks supremely confident to me,” John said in response.  
  
         Linda was exasperated.  “Maybe you’re not looking hard enough,” she snapped.  
  
         John was taken aback by Linda’s sharp tone, and a bit hurt by it.  He stared at her and the surprise and hurt were on his face.  
  
         Linda relented a little.  “I shouldn’t have snapped,” she admitted, “but sometimes you men are so _dense._ Don’t you ever try to put yourself in someone else’s shoes, and see things how they must see them?”  
  
         “I’m not sure I know what you mean by that,” John said.  
  
         “Well, put yourself in Paul’s shoes for a minute.  All three of you dumped all over him, and encouraged the press to do so.  He loved you guys - you were the most important people to him.  He was devastated.  He was turning into an alcoholic.  And the rock critics have done nothing but savage him for the last 18 years.  What would you expect him to feel after all that?”  Linda’s voice had risen as she spoke her mind, and she didn’t notice that Paul had been roused by it.  
  
         “What’s going on?” he asked in alarm.  He saw that Linda was angry, and John was getting that mulish look on his face.  “ _Hey!  You two!  What’s going on_?”  
  
         Linda relaxed and said, “John and I were having a little difference of opinion, that’s all.”  
  
         John turned to Paul, and Paul noted a brief flash of – what?  Guilt? – in his eyes, before John smiled in a sweet, soothing, intimate way.  “It’s nothing, Pud, go back to sleep.”  
  
         _Pud_?  Linda asked herself.  _What the…?_ Linda looked at the two men and felt a strange sensation.  For a very brief instant she had seen inside Paul’s intimate connection with John.  She had never really felt threatened by John.  She had never really felt that Paul would leave her, even if Paul’s love for John went far deeper than the love he had for her.  She knew that Paul loved and needed her, and would also never ever leave their children.  But she hadn’t really allowed herself to think too much about what passed between the two men when they were alone together.  With that one affectionate diminutive nickname, Linda had heard an earful.  
  
         “I’m not going to be able to sleep _now_ ,” Paul responded, “since you two have so _rudely_ awakened me.”  
  
         “Pardon us for living, _Sahib_ ,” John laughed, turning to Linda to share the joke.  Linda felt warmth for John in that moment and smiled back.  It was a genuine smile, and John was oddly comforted by it.  
  
         Linda, however, felt again the niggling fear that had prompted her to suggest inviting May along.  She had an amorphous fear that the whole John ‘n Paul thing was going to explode in all their faces sooner rather than later, and she thought May Pang might be the solution to all their problems.  Linda could tell that John was not excited by the idea of inviting May when she had brought it up with him, but he didn’t stop her from doing it.  _That had to mean something_ , she thought hopefully.  
  
         Paul, meanwhile, gazed into the hazy blue horizon with half-open eyes and worried.  Everything was unsettled, it felt like all the rules were being changed, and he didn’t have any input on it.  Linda and John arguing, Linda inviting May – what the hell was that all about?  Was this her attempt to come between John and him?  And why did John agree to it?  And then there were all the other worries…  
  
  


*****

  
  
        Since there was no guesthouse in the Martin home, it was the first time that John (with May) was living and sleeping right amongst the McCartneys.  It was awkward.  There was nowhere for John and Paul to spend the whole night together without raising May’s suspicions, Paul didn’t feel comfortable spending the whole night with John with his kids around, and the pool house wasn’t exactly conducive to a comfortable night’s sleep anyway.  Thus, on the nights they did manage to be together, Paul would always leave to go back to Linda’s bed.   This never failed to upset John.  One night when - after a languorous few hours of love making and cuddling – Paul moved to get up and leave, and John grabbed his arm.  
  
         “Where the fuck are you going, Paul?”  He growled.  
  
         Paul sighed with irritation.  “You know where I’m going.”  
  
         “Why?” John asked brusquely.  
  
         “You _know_ why.”       
  
         “We sleep together when Sean is with us.  You don’t see me running into another bedroom to pretend we don’t.”  
  
         Paul leaned back against the chaise back and sighed again.  He was going to have to have this conversation whether he wanted it or not, so he might as well do it properly.  “That’s different.”  He said.  
  
         “Different _how_?” John was quite provoked by that lame response.  
  
         “You’re not married to Sean’s mum anymore.  You’re not maintaining a whole separate life with his mother.  I _am_ with my children’s mother.  I’m doing the best I can to spare them too much unnecessary pain and confusion over it.”      
  
         John thought about it quietly, and had to admit Paul’s situation was different from his.  But then…  
  
         “Heather is certainly old enough to figure it out, Paul.  How old is she now?  Heather has got to be – what?  25?  Do you think she doesn’t suspect already?”  
  
         Paul looked at John with alarm and denial.  “No, she doesn’t suspect.  She doesn’t even live with me and Linda down in Sussex any more.  She lives in Scotland on her own with her boyfriend.  Parents are irrelevant to her now.  Why should she suspect?”  
  
         John continued.  “And Mary is…what?  Eighteen?”  
  
         “My children – none of them – suspect anything.  And I intend to keep it that way.”  Paul’s voice was hard and finite.  
  
         John let the harsh words dissipate in the cool night air before continuing.  “Julian knows.”  
  
         Paul felt yet another sharp jab at his conscience.  “He _told_ you this?”  
  
         “No,” John said thoughtfully.  “I just _know_ he knows.  He’s not stupid.  He has visited us in the townhouse.  I’m sure Sean has told him we sleep together.”  
  
         Paul was unpleasantly shocked by this whole line of discussion.  “You’re _sure_ of that?”  
  
         “Well,” John responded, I don’t know for _certain_ sure.  But Sean babbles away about things, like he did to your kids last Christmas, and it seems highly unlikely the information hasn’t slipped out of his mouth once or twice in all these years when he was talking to Julian.”  
  
         “I thought you explained all that to Sean,” Paul said, feeling his heart starting to race.  
  
         “I did, but Julian is his big brother.  He idolizes him.  I’m sure he wouldn’t hold anything back if the subject came up.  And anyway, Paul, I’m sorry luv, but Julian is a grown man, and he knows it is strange that you and I live together half the time.  I’m sure he has put two and two together, even if by some miracle Sean hasn’t said anything.  I’ve been meaning to suggest that we sit down and talk to him about it.”  
  
         Paul remained silent for a good minute or two.  Could John be right?  Could his daughters be suspicious of his relationship with John?  Could _all_ the children know?  Suddenly Paul felt both reckless and vulnerable, sitting there naked on the chaise in the pool house with John – within a stone’s throw of the house where his children slept.  “I have to go now, John,” he said, getting off the chaise and hastily putting his pajamas on again.  “I’ll see you in the morning.”  Soon, the door closed behind him.  
  
         John lay back against the chaise arm and stared at the ceiling.  He was sorry now that he had said anything.  But it had to be said.  The children were getting older now, and they were going to be putting the pieces together if they hadn’t already.  Paul could pretend otherwise, but it wouldn’t affect the final outcome.   Paul would be better off recognizing this hard truth, and coming up with a realistic strategy to handle it.  Obviously, though, that wasn’t going to happen.  Paul was deep in denial on the subject.  
  
         Sighing deeply, John tried to put the subject behind him, and concentrate on the night’s lovemaking for a moment.  It had been incredibly fulfilling emotionally, at least for John.  He had felt in brief little flashes the hope that Paul was inching his way back to him.  John hoped that he wasn’t deluding himself.  It was very hard to read Paul, and as Linda had pointed out to him earlier in the week, maybe he didn’t try hard enough to understand what was really going on inside that beautiful head.  John was determined to change that.  
  


*****

  
  
         One bright morning, about a week into their holiday, John and Linda were seated on the balcony taking in a view of the glowing Caribbean, partaking of fresh mango, banana, passion fruit and papaya, when Linda brought up an issue she’d been toying with all week.  Paul was down at the beach with the younger kids; the older kids were lounging around the pool.  May was down there, too, deep in conversation with Mary and Stella.  The two girls had taken an immediately liking to May, who was seriously cool and modern even though she was their parents’ age.  
  
         “It is nice to have May here, she fits in to the family very well,” Linda said innocently, staring out to the horizon.  
  
         John responded without looking up from his magazine,  “She’s a great girl.”  
  
         “I hope you don’t mind that I suggested inviting her.  I thought it would make everything a little easier,” Linda said.  
  
         “ _Oh?_ ”  John asked, this time looking up and meeting Linda’s eyes unflinchingly.  There was a hint of dangerous hostility around his eyes, but Linda wasn’t afraid of it.  
  
         “With us all in the same house, I mean, and with the album coming out, I think it is best for us all to have a plausible scenario to fall back on.”  There.  She’d said it.  The elephant in the room was outed.  
  
         John saw the wisdom in what she said, but he was annoyed by her officiousness.  “I don’t fancy using May as a ploy to deceive people,” he said flatly.  “I like May, and we enjoy each other’s company, but that’s as far as it is ever going to go.”  John stared Linda down, his whole demeanor sending a message to his rival – Paul was his, too, and John had no intention of letting that change.  
  
         Linda quailed a little at this John - a John she’d never seen.  She had always thought he was dependent, reactive, and passive even.  This John looked quite confident and in control.  Still, she felt Paul would break in a thousand pieces if the whole album thing went bad, and she needed to do what she could to at least protect the secrets that they had _some_ control over so he didn’t have to deal with _that_ awfulness, too.  She finally said, “I just want us all to have a happy ending.”  
  
         John gave her a quizzical look.  “My ‘ _happy ending_ ’ is always going to include Paul,” he said softly, and this time his eyes were unsure of themselves and also slightly apologetic.  He swallowed before continuing.  “I will probably continue to see May, but only when Paul’s with you, and not very frequently, because I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.  She has a boyfriend, and I would feel bad if she left him because of me, since I can’t be there for her the way she probably would want me to be.  And the last thing on earth I want to do is use her as a beard.  She deserves better than that.”  
  
         John’s comment was a reproach to Linda.  For a moment there Linda had actually allowed her protectiveness towards her family to overshadow the fact that May was a person, too, and being used that way would be very hurtful to her.  Linda nodded in concession to John’s point.  And somehow, she had suspected that John was not going to back off on Paul easily, although she had hoped otherwise.  She forced herself to show John a sympathetic smile.  “At least we’re not like two dogs fighting over a bone,” she said with a chuckle.  “That would be embarrassing and undignified.”  John laughed too, and leaned back in his chair, throwing his head back in a sun worshipping gesture.  
  
         Life wasn’t perfect.  It had all sorts of scars and blemishes.  But it was – in this moment - as near to being perfect as John could hope to have it, considering everything.   The album hadn’t come out yet, and so he could indulge his fantasy that it would be a great success.  He had Paul exactly where he wanted him – or, at least he’d dragged Paul as close to exactly where he wanted him as was possible given all the variables.  May could be a pleasant distraction from time to time.  He knew (even if Paul didn’t) that Julian and Sean would be fine with the whole John and Paul thing.  Sean already was, and Julian no doubt was okay with it too.  Yup – altogether, in this moment, life was sweet.  He wasn’t going to worry about tomorrow.  
  
         ‘Tomorrow’ was the publication date of the _Rolling Stone_ interview, and the release date of the first Lennon  & McCartney album, _Last Year’s Echo_.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parts of the Rolling Stone interview are leaked, and John Eastman has a rude awakening, and Part One of Paul Melts Down...

        It was March 21st, 1988, and it was the day before the date chosen for the release of John and Paul’s new album.   While John and Paul were hiding away in the Caribbean, their PR team was working overtime at warp speed to control the “message” on the new album.    It was only eight o’clock in the morning, and already the press inquiries had reached fever pitch, and the press hadn’t even heard one note off the album yet!  Interns were answering the phones and providing set-piece responses to the constantly recurring questions:  
  
         Q:      When will John and Paul be available for an interview?  
  
         A:      They’re booked up right now, but as soon as their schedules free up we will be setting up interviews.  
  
         Q:      Can we get an advance copy of the album so we can review it?  
  
         A:      The album is going to become available tomorrow morning, and everyone is getting it at once.  
  
         Q:      Where are they?  No one has seen them!  
  
         A:      They’re both spending some private time with their families and will soon be available for interviews.  
  
         It went round and round.  It was driving the business office crazy.  
  
         At mid-day, when quotes from the _Rolling Stone_ interview began hitting the news agencies, the phone lines at the business offices crashed for a few hours, due to the high call volume.  They were all begging for confirmation of the _RS_ – leaked quotes, or comments from John and Paul on the quotes.  Jann Wenner was milking it for all it was worth, even releasing one of Annie Liebowitz’s provocative photographs to UPI.   There was a kind of magnetic force field around the two men in the photograph; it was skillfully edited and their eyes seemed to snap, although they wore the serious expressions rock photographers preferred in their subjects.   Both men were standing next to each other and faced the camera head on, and each had his arms crossed in front of his chest.  There was something unflinching and powerful about the charisma they exuded.  Nothing about it overtly indicated sexuality, but somehow the whole image pulsated with sex – hot, steamy, sex.  Jann and Annie were extremely pleased with the cover art, and it fed right into Jann’s spin on the interview.  
  
         Jann had given the interview a lot of thought.  He had come away at first disappointed and frustrated.  But as he played the tape back, and without the distraction of having to look at either one of them, he began to hear the ‘tells.’  There was the fact that John called Paul ‘babe’ without thinking.  And then there was Paul saying ‘we’ all the time as if they were a solid unit completely in agreement, rather than two independent partners with differing viewpoints.  John had been extremely protective and defensive about Paul – just as he had been of Yoko in the early ‘70s when everyone was attacking her.  Jann had witnessed that bullying protectiveness in John first hand, and now he was seeing it again.  And Paul – so watchful and careful throughout, as if he were standing apart and monitoring what he was saying to make sure it was ‘safe’.  The comments about Linda and the children were predictable, but Jann couldn’t get past the fact that for 20 years Paul had appeared to go nowhere without his wife and children, and suddenly he was able to spend months at a time away from them.   Also, there were the obscure references to what were obviously private jokes, the exchanges of intimate glances and looks of concern, respect and rapt attention between them, like it had been in the ‘60s.  
  
         And the songs!  Whether they meant to or not, they were giving themselves away with the songs.  _You Want it Too –_ Jann was excited about that song.  To him, it was obviously about a man (let’s call him Paul) being tempted by a devil (let’s call him John) to give in to forbidden sex, and then the Paul character rationalizing and justifying it all to himself.  _Very_ suggestive.  
  
         He knew that _She’s A Friend of Dorothy_ was going to be a provocative song and raise eyebrows all over the world.  He’d heard they’d made a video behind it.  Good lord – what would _that_ be about?  And _Rough Ride_?  Didn’t they realize how dangerous it was to release songs like that if what they wanted to do was hide their relationship?    
  
         The subtler songs were equally interesting.  There was the ‘character’ song of John’s that Paul had teased him about, _Free as a Bird_ , for example.  Jann reread Paul’s comment from the interview about what the song was about:  “ _There's the girl who used to be an artist, but she set aside her ambitions, keeps those to herself, and she gets a nine to five job, deals with a bunch of prats every day, living up to her lawyer mum's expectations. And she longs to be free as a bird.  She's got the same dream John had, I had...”_ This could so easily be interpreted to be John writing about himself in his Dakota years.  Or it could be about Paul giving up being a rocker in order to be a family man.  Hadn’t he heard John say many times back in the early ‘70s that Paul had been snowed by “the Eastmans”, and that someday Paul would “come out of it”?  And, interestingly, Paul had noted that the girl’s dream was the “same dream” both he and John had.  
  
         Jann thought he knew the real story behind the album – which was pure fun at times, sincerely moving at times, then all of a sudden unexpectedly there would be a provocative poke – and the real story was begging to be told.  It almost didn’t matter if their relationship was sexual or just emotional - it was pellucid that they had utterly re-bonded.   They were a tight, cohesive unit, and they weren’t going to let anyone get between them.  It might not be sexual, Jann thought.  He was still not positive about that part.  But whatever it was, it was intensely intimate and symbiotic.  That was the theme of the album, Jann decided, and that is the story he allowed the editing of the photographs and interview to tell.  
  


*****

  
        
         John had somehow lulled himself into forgetting that today – this bright shiny morning in paradise – was the album release date.  He was lying in the sun working on a deep golden tan, of which he was inordinately proud.  Something about coming from the dark north of England caused both John and Paul to literally blast themselves with sunburn whenever they were near the tropics in a rush to put their pale, pasty whiteness behind them.   He was content to stay here the rest of his life, John thought.  Although he’d banish May, his sons, and Paul’s family to an adjacent island, and if he or Paul needed their women or children, they could visit the other island.  He smiled to himself.  In effect, that is what he had achieved by working with Paul again.  He had constructed a private island where he and Paul could dwell alone together, and no one else could visit.  
  
         Paul, meanwhile, was eaten up with anxiety.  He and Linda had awakened early that morning.  Linda had plied Paul with sex and pot all night long to help calm him down, but now Paul was pacing around their bedroom talking ostensibly to Linda but really to himself.  
  
         “This was a crazy idea!  We should have stayed in London.  I really need to get on a plane and be there, even if John refuses…”  
  
         Linda made a soft comforting sound that was neither agreement nor disagreement.  
  
         “I can’t trust those idiots to do this thing right, unless I’m looking over their bloody shoulders!”  Paul ranted, his heart beating a mile a minute.  “They’re gonna fuck it up.”  
  
         “My brother is pretty good at this, Paul.  He flew all the way from New York to take charge for you.  He won’t let them fuck it up,” Linda said softly.  
  
         “Yeah, yeah, John’ll keep ‘em in line I guess; they’re all afraid of you Eastmans,” Paul responded with an errant grin, but he continued to pace.  A few moments went by before he spoke again.  “But there’s things that only I can answer; I need to get them on the phone and check in with them.”  
  
         “I think that’s a great idea,” Linda said warmly.  
  
         Encouraged, Paul looked at the clock and did the math.   It was about 5:00 p.m. in London; the day was already over.  There ought to be some news by now, and the _Rolling Stone_ interview should have been released by now.  Paul sat down on the side of the bed and picked up the telephone mouthpiece.  
  
  


*****

  
  
        John Eastman was taking a well-earned break in Paul’s business office.  He was half-stretched out on the tufted leather sofa, holding a Perfect Manhattan he’d just mixed for himself, complete with his preferred green olive ( _who wants cherries with their drinks?  Wimps!  That’s who_!)  That first chilled sip was heavenly.  _What a crazy day!_ The buzz was fantastic about the album, and the amount of excited interest the press and the public was showing was exhilarating.  In one day most of the major music stores in Europe and America had run out of their initial delivery of albums, and people were screaming for more.  Thankfully, there were plenty more ready to go out, and John had just approved the arrangements for the second deliveries before he sat down to relax.  The _RS_ interview had been released, and Eastman knew that the review it gave the album was great.  They had been receiving all sorts of questions about the interview all day, which meant it must be intriguing.  It certainly provoked a lot of interest!  He hadn’t read it yet, but there it was, at his feet, ready for him to read now that he had a quiet moment to himself.  
  
         He picked it up and did a double take while looking at the photo on the cover.  It was incredibly striking.  It was a very stark black and white image, and John and Paul both looked like they were almost glaring at the camera – as if they were _daring_ people to question their combined talent.  But there was something about it that made John a tad uncomfortable.  He knew about their relationship, of course, Paul had told him years ago.  He thought they’d done a great job at keeping it secret.   But this photograph seemed to _vibrate_ because it had so much, well, it seemed almost like _sexual_ energy.  Eastman quickly comforted himself with the thought that rock ‘n rollers were _supposed_ to exude illicit sexuality, and no one was better at projecting that kind of image than Annie Liebowitz.  So, all in all, the cover shot was very good for them, publicity-wise.  
  
         He opened to the interview, and first glanced through the various photos they had chosen to print with the text.  But as he began to read Wenner’s comments in the beginning, and then as the interview unfolded, he felt a hard ball forming in the pit of his stomach.  _No wonder they were getting calls left and right about this interview!  Crap!_ He had to get up and do damage control immediately!  Too bad Paul wasn’t there, because he and Paul had brainstormed their way through more than one PR disaster in their 20-year friendship and partnership.  
  
         It was at just this moment that the phone rang.  It was the receptionist, who was working overtime because of the call volume, who put through the call from Paul.  
  
         “John!  Talk to me mate!” Paul demanded.  
  
         “Paul – it’s all good.  The album has had fantastic reviews thus far – the _RS_ review is extremely good, 5 stars.   And it’s selling like hotcakes.  I’ve already had to approve the release of the second distribution shipment!”  
  
         Paul felt so much relief course through him that he almost fell back against the pillows.  His arm could barely hold up the telephone mouthpiece.  Still, he managed to keep sitting there, holding the receiver.  The moments while he was allowing his heart rate to slow down passed by, and on the other end John Eastman was getting worried.  
  
         “Paul?  Are you still there?”  
  
         Paul finally found some breath.  “Yeah,” he managed to gasp.  “I’m glad to hear it went so well.  Thanks for leading with that.  Now tell me what went wrong.”  
  
         Eastman understood, like Paul understood, that something _always_ goes wrong.   “Well, the phone lines overloaded in mid-afternoon yesterday after the promotional info on the _RS_ article was released.  The article has stirred up a tremendous amount of interest.  The ‘ _Free As a Bird_ ’ video is getting good feedback.”  Eastman didn’t know if his voice carried with it any of the concern he felt about the _RS_ article.  
  
         Paul heard the unsaid ‘but’ in John’s response.  “So what is so ‘interesting’ about the interview?” he asked, with a sense of dread.  He believed that he and John had been very subtle and circumspect throughout the interview, but he also knew that both he and John didn’t trust Jann Wenner.  
  
         Eastman took a deep breath.  “It’s nothing, really, just the usual controversy that the press and the fans like to get up to.”  
  
         “Like what?”  Paul’s voice was deep and urgent.  
  
         “It’s nothing _overt_ , mind you,” John said slowly.  “But the photo on the cover…”  
  
         “What _about_ the photo on the cover?” Paul asked in a raspy voice.  
  
         “It’s beautiful.  Beautiful.  It’s a lot like that David Bailey shoot.”  
  
         Paul was silent.  That told him everything.  When those Bailey proofs had arrived in Brian’s office, back in 1965, Brian had hit the ceiling, and refused to allow Bailey to publish any of them but the one of them standing there kind of glaring in opposite directions.  It wasn’t until years later that the other shots were published.  At the time when Brian had his little hissy fit, Paul and John had joked with each other that the photo Brian had _approved_ for publication was perhaps the sexiest one of the whole bunch!  “It looks like we’ve just had a huge passionate lover’s spat,” John had joked, and then they had both laughed.  They had felt free to laugh back then, because no one then suspected them of having a sexual relationship, and for the most part it would not have occurred to them to even _think_ about it back then.  Today’s culture was a lot different, a lot more open to all kinds of formerly taboo subjects.  As Paul mused over what Eastman had said, Paul began to cringe over the risks they’d taken with some of their song lyrics, and one of the music videos they’d filmed.  
  
         “Paul?”  Eastman asked again.  
  
         “Yeah, okay, so what about the interview?”  Paul asked, his voice now sullen and dull.  It was as if he knew what he was about to hear.  
  
         “That’s the part that has me a little worried – _not a lot_!” Eastman rushed to add.  “Just a _little_.  No doubt it is because I know about you and John, but I get the sense that Wenner is pretty much implying that there is a lot more to your relationship than just a creative partnership, or even a friendship.  Nothing _overt_ , like I said…” Eastman trailed off helplessly.   It was hard to give bad news to Paul about his public image.  He was so insecure and quick to panic over it, before he would finally buckle down, accept it, and then find ways to deal with it.  But Eastman couldn’t _not_ say anything, and have Paul be hit by surprise with it when he came back to London.  
  
         “What do we need to do about it?” Paul finally asked, swallowing his fear in order to find a graceful escape route.  
  
         “I think, at this point, honestly, we have to let it play out a little bit.  Perhaps it is just a flurry of excitement generally about your creative reunion, and we can take this on a day-by- day basis.  In the meantime, I suggest we say nothing, and treat any rumors as just that – unsubstantiated rumors.  And – well – that _‘She’s A Friend of Dorothy’s’_ video…”  
  
         “That isn’t planned for release for weeks yet,” Paul murmured.  
  
         “Perhaps you should rethink that video entirely, depending on how the press goes with this _RS_ article,” Eastman said.  
  
         “Hmmm...” Paul responded.  Since that particular video was John’s baby – he had advocated for it, and had been very excited by the director’s ideas, Paul saw trouble ahead if he tried to kill it.  
  
         Eastman was talking again.  “I think we know how to handle this here, so you really should try to enjoy the last two weeks of your vacation.  It is going to be rush-rush-rush once you get back, so you need to relax as much as possible now.  I’ll be sure to call you if there is any problem, so you don’t need to worry about that.  I promise.”  
  
         Paul grunted in acknowledgement, although he knew he wouldn’t be “relaxing” at all in the next two weeks.  Suddenly the next two weeks seemed like 10 years stretching out ahead of him.  Paul only felt able to cope with trouble when he was actively doing something about it.  
  
         Linda had listened to Paul’s end of the conversation with growing concern.  Paul’s back was to her while he was on the phone, and he was hunched over as if to protect himself from a body blow.  It had something to do with the _RS_ interview, that much she had been able to glean from Paul’s cryptic responses.  _Fuckin’ Jann Wenner_ , she growled to herself.  
  
         “So what’s the news, baby?” She asked instead in a soft voice, while caressing Paul’s back with a gentle hand.  
  
         Paul turned to look at her and a plucky smile showed itself.  “Well, the reviews are good, and the album is selling well.  _Rolling Stone_ gave it 5 stars, which it hardly ever does.”  
  
         Linda recognized the brave face.  “But the _RS_ interview?  Is there something wrong with it?” she asked.  
  
         “No, no, not really, but…”  
  
         “ _But_?”  Linda’s eyes were encouraging Paul to unburden himself.  
  
         “Your brother thinks that Wenner is implying that there is more to John’s and my relationship than we’re telling.  Apparently, it’s innuendo, which I had been afraid of.”  
  
         “And the cover shot?” Linda asked.  
  
         “He says it reminds him of the Bailey shoot.”  
  
         “Oh.”  Linda was silenced by that.  Her heart fell.  She had first seen the Bailey shots just a few years ago, and had been quietly scandalized by them.  Bailey might as well have put a huge blinking sign over them shouting ‘ _Lovers!  Lovers!  Lovers_!’  “So what does John think we should do?” she finally asked.  
  
         “He thinks we should wait and see how it plays out.  I don’t have any better ideas.  A dignified silence kind of thing…”  
  
         “ _But?_ ” Linda asked, again urging him with her eyes to open up.  
  
         “But nothing.  I agree with John.  There’s nothing we can do or say that will do anything but make us look guilty.”  He sighed deeply.  Paul laid back against the pillows in surrender to his momentary physical weakness.  
  
         “What are you thinking, baby?” Linda whispered softly, cuddling up to Paul, and laying her head on his chest.  Her hands traced circles on his stomach, and she could feel and hear his heart beating like mad.  
  
         “The kids…”  
  
         “ _Ahhh…_ ” Linda said in understanding.  She waited a few moments before saying what had to be said.  “We should sit the older ones down and talk to them about it.  They deserve to hear it from us, and not through innuendo in the press.”  
  
         Paul felt his tentative grasp on life break loose.  He laid there in a stony cold silence for several minutes, knowing that Linda was right.  It was what John had been telling him for months now.  But everything that was most dear to him – it was all breaking loose, and he felt a bit like an astronaut lost in space:  there was a tiny little possibility that it _might_ work out, if everything went _just so_ , but it probably wouldn’t.   
  
         “It won’t be that bad, honey,” Linda crooned.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Mary and Stella already have questions about it, and Heather has her own life now.  Even if it upsets her a little, she’ll get over it quickly. No matter what, they _love_ you.”  
  
         Paul was still mute:  cold on the inside, and mute on the outside.   He finally said, “And what about James?”  
  
         Linda grimaced and was glad that Paul could not see her face.  James was a fragile child.  He was easily hurt because he felt things far too deeply.  James had inherited both Linda’s and Paul’s deep sensitivity and insecurity without any of their awesome coping skills.   Linda could not pretend to herself that this information would be anything but hard on James.  It wouldn’t be about the sex, Linda knew, because he was still too young to understand about that really.  It would be about the betrayal of their family; the secret life Paul shared with other people, away from their little family unit.  Later, in a few years, would come the sexual confusion over his father’s lifestyle.  
  
         Paul felt her silence and knew what she was thinking.  “I’d rather cut out my vocal chords than tell that boy,” he whispered.  Linda heard the tears in Paul’s voice.  
  
         “We don’t need to just yet,” Linda said softly.  “Not unless something really hits the fan.  If it remains just coy innuendo, then I think we can protect him from it until he’s a little older.”  
  
         Paul sighed.  He guessed that was the best he could hope for, given the circumstances.  But a sense of self-loathing was roaming freestyle through his brain.  He had selfishly grabbed what he wanted, and he hadn’t really thought about the consequences for the people he loved the most - and who needed him the most.  He’d had dozens – maybe hundreds – of opportunities to do the right thing, the responsible thing, and he had turned all those opportunities down, because he could not resist John Lennon.  _Those critics are right_ , Paul thought to himself.  _They’ve been saying for years that I’m a selfish, smug asshole, and that is exactly what I am.  And the music – the only reason we’re getting 5 whole stars from fucking Jann Wenner is because of John.  Here I am, riding on John’s coattails again._ In saner moments, Paul knew he had as much talent as John.  Otherwise, he would not have been able to go on with his career in the face of so much hostility and contempt.  But in weak moments such as these, Paul’s thoughts turned against himself.  _They’re also right about my music.  It’s facile and easy.  If enough people say that, after a point you really do have to wonder if there isn’t truth to it.  Whatever possessed me to consider working with John again?  All this will do is prove what everyone has been saying all along – that John’s the genius and I’m just this, this, well…’princess’…that John is infatuated with for some unknown reason._  
  
         These dark thoughts were taking over Paul’s whole body.  Linda could feel it stiffen and grow distant from her.  She lifted her head up and saw the bland, blank, ‘ _I’m closing in on myself, so don’t even bother to reach me’_ look that she had grown to dread during the first few years after the Beatles broke up.  She felt a moment of despair.  _She couldn’t go through it again.  She couldn’t!  Not after everything!  Not after standing by him through thick and thin!_ Linda’s thoughts started to grow bitter, as she turned over on to her back and stared at the ceiling, feeling the frostiness coming from Paul’s side of the bed.   A bitter smile momentarily crossed her face.  _I should let John deal with it.  It was all his fault anyway.  If he had minded his own business, and let Paul alone, none of this would have happened_. _Somehow she – Linda- always had to pick up the pieces.  John got all the fun stuff._  
  
         Paul finally stirred.  He sat up and then went in to the bathroom, where Linda heard him showering.  A few moments later he came back into the bedroom, fully dressed in fresh swim trunks and t-shirt.  “I’ve got to go tell John the good news about the album.  And, if we’re going to talk to the older kids, then I need to tell him about the _RS_ article.  We’ll have to discuss how to do it.”  Paul’s voice sounded flat, but in control.  Linda bestirred herself, and as Paul left the room, she started her morning ablutions.  
  


*****

  
  
        John was still enjoying his sunbathing when Paul came out and sat on the edge of the chaise lounge to one side of John.  May was stretched out tanning on the other side of John.  John looked up and smiled in a warm, uncomplicated way at Paul, not yet sensing that there was a problem there.  
  
         “We need to talk, John,” Paul said in a low voice.  
  
         “Ok.  I’m all ears,” John twinkled back.  
  
         “ _Privately_ ,” Paul emphasized, in even a lower voice, so that May wouldn’t hear.  
  
         John sighed and made a big show of how much of an effort it was to get up off the lounge, and then followed Paul into the house, and up on to the balcony.  
  
         “So what’s up?”  John asked him, as they sat across from each other at the outdoor table.  
  
         “Good news about our album, John.  _RS_ gave it 5 stars, and it is selling like crazy.”  Paul’s face looked strong and cheerful as he delivered the news.  
  
         John felt a rush of relief run through him, and then his cross-eyed optimism flew to the top.  “I knew it!  I knew it was great!”  Of course he had known no such thing.  But now that it was true, he could pretend otherwise to all and sundry.  
  
         Paul smiled at John’s boyish reaction.  “There is one sticky thing,” he said, holding in his own gathering clouds of despair in a valiant effort not to upset John.  He hadn’t thought to be so protective when he was telling Linda, but Paul didn’t realize that as he broke the news to John.  “Remember we were concerned about the spin Wenner was going to put on our interview?”  
  
         John grew more serious and a little watchful.  “Yeah…”  
  
         “Well, according to Eastman, he’s done it.  He’s kind of emphasized our personal relationship over our creative partnership.  John said it was not overt, but still it bothered him enough to mention it to me.”  
  
         John stared at Paul, trying to interpret Paul’s expression.   On the surface he seemed strong and in control.  Yet John knew how much Paul feared upsetting his wife and children, and this news could not have been good news for him.  
  
         Paul continued.  “I don’t think we have any choice but to talk to Julian, and my daughters.  James is too young, and we’ll just have to protect him as best we can.  And although Sean does know about us, I don’t think he realizes how badly the information might be received by the public, or how awful the backlash can be.”  
  
         John now knew that Paul was being stoic in the face of what was clearly a disaster to him.  Just nights ago he had sworn that he had no intention of talking to his children about their relationship.  Yet here he sat explaining that it had to be done.  
  
         “When do you want to do it?” John asked simply.  
  
         “I think just a few days before we leave,” Paul said.  “We don’t want to spoil all of their remaining time here, but they need at least a few days to get used to the idea before they have to face all the controversy.”  
  
         John nodded.  It was weird.  He wasn’t getting any vibes off Paul.  It was as if Paul was an automaton, or a robot or something.  This worried John far more than the potential exposure of their relationship did.  He knew he could survive anything as long as he had Paul with him, but if Paul was going to implode, then everything else was going to be unbearable too.   
  
         Paul got up, and abruptly changed the subject.  “You wanna go to the beach?”  
  
         “Alone?  With you?”  John asked hopefully.  
         
         Paul relented with what certainly appeared to be a warm smile.  “That sounds just about right,” he said.  
  


*****

  
  
        The beach sand was hot and shining in the mid-day sun.  John and Paul found a secluded corner behind tall seaside cliffs, where they were invisible to all eyes.   John couldn’t believe his luck; Paul appeared to be initiating this intimacy and it had been a while since Paul had seemed so intensely driven by a need to have sex with him.   Paul plopped down on his butt in the sand, and John followed suit.  Paul immediately pushed John backwards on to the sand, and soon was hovering over John, and John saw the passion in Paul’s face.  This sent a frisson of excitement tracing down John’s spine.  Greedily he reached a hand up, and pulled Paul’s head down to his, and soon they were locked in an intense kiss.  Paul finally was able to break free from John’s aggressive mouth, and he moved down John’s chest, and pushing down John’s swim trunks, soon had John’s cock in his hand.  John felt the foreskin get pushed back, and soon Paul’s mouth had completely engulfed him.  John’s back arched and he shouted out in ecstasy.   
  
         John’s hands were tangled in Paul’s dark hair and he was lost in joyful passion.  And soon Paul had moved back up until his face with flush with John’s.  Paul’s hands cradled John’s face, and once again the two men were kissing each other, deeply, with ill-concealed urgency.  Paul felt the pressure building up in his crotch, so he sat back on his haunches, and impatiently grabbed John’s legs, pushing them up into the air.  John groaned and readied himself to receive Paul’s entrance by concentrating on relaxing his lower stomach and evening out his breathing.  
  
         “Oh!” John cried as he felt Paul’s first thrust.  
  
         Paul had been acting without thinking for several minutes now.  He felt flushed and disordered, as if he had the flu.  He was driven by something that was struggling to push aside the defeatist voice that had been plaguing him ever since the Eastman phone call.  Somehow, someway, he had to reassert himself, and feel strong and in control again.  Linda knew too much.  She knew how close he was to the edge.  Paul had seen it in her eyes back in the bedroom – the disappointment in him, the fear of having to face her husband at his weakest and most desperate again.  He had sympathy for her.  He didn’t blame her.  She married the bachelor prince of London, and ended up carrying buckets of freezing cold water across a stone floor in the back of beyond in Scotland while he drank himself into a stupor.  It was a gigantic bait and switch for her.  He understood why she hated to see him this way.  
  
         John didn’t see him that way – weak and needy.  John saw him as self-confident and stable.  And that is exactly what Paul needed to see in himself at that moment, and he knew he would see it reflected back to him in John’s trusting eyes.  At that moment, Paul suddenly heard the words, “ _John’s trusting eyes_ ” echoing in his brain, and it was as if he suddenly became fully self-aware.  He stopped his thrusting, and looked down into John’s face.  Slowly, John’s face relaxed from its earlier state of strained excitement, and he seemed to be coming back to earth, too.  They stared at each other for a few moments – Paul looking as though he were in shock, and John looking utterly confused.  He finally was able to ask,  
  
         “ _Pud_?  You okay?”  John’s voice had the effect of breaking Paul’s concentration.  But John could feel that Paul’s cock had grown flaccid; Paul quickly withdrew himself, pulled up his trunks, and then sat back on his heels.  John sat up too, adjusting his own trunks, and then he reached out for Paul with a comforting hand.  “Pud? You’re scaring me.  What’s wrong?”  
  
         Paul’s eyes finally refocused on John, and then he whispered, “I don’t know.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Deux of Paul Melts Down: Dealing with "Exposure"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next are a series of private conversations between the 4 impacted persons in our story, so that sooner or later all 4 protagonists have a private conversation with most of the others. It ends with a scene that will lead us into the next chapter. In short, it was the best way I could think go to explore the impact of impending exposure on our very unusual menage.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.
> 
> I have not been reasserting every chapter that this is total, fabricated, FICTION, and not for profit, but I think I should do so every so often just to be crystal clear. :)

       It was an extremely unpleasant dream.  It was confusing, embarrassing, and incredibly stressful.  Was he in a labyrinth?  What was it?  Sometimes he was wandering down a street that had suddenly gone from familiar to strange.  Sometimes it felt like it was a bus he was on, going in the wrong direction and no way to get off it.  Then he was on foot trying to get to the top of a hill, but he couldn’t even drag his legs behind him.   At all times he was missing at least some items of clothing (which ones?) but no one seemed to notice.  Now he was back on the bus again, naked.  So far no one had seen, and he was desperate to find something to hide behind, but there was nothing there.  No, it was Latin class, end of term, and he hadn’t gone to class all term, hadn’t done the work, and he would be horribly exposed if he didn’t pass the test…  
  
       He was awakened suddenly.  It was the movement in his legs that did it.  They had been churning like windmills, as he tried to run while sound asleep and lying in bed.      
  
       “ _Paul!  Wake up_!”    
  
       His eyes focused in the dark, and the bewildering images playing before him in bold, constant color and motion gradually rearranged themselves into a peaceful darkened bedroom.  He recognized Linda’s voice.  Paul’s heart was beating frantically, and he literally had to catch his breath.    
  
       “You’ve had a bad dream,” Linda told him, unnecessarily.  Paul had already figured that out.    
  
       Paul’s throat was parched, and he pulled himself up to a sitting position with great effort.  He reached for the glass of water by his bedside, and took three prolonged gulps.    
  
       Linda waited while he pulled himself together.  
  
       Finally, he spoke.  “I can’t do it.”    
  
       Linda felt her heart fall, but she persevered.  “What can’t you do baby?” she whispered.  
  
       “ _Any_ of it.”  Paul’s voice was devoid of hope and confidence.  
  
       Linda waited.  The minutes stretched out and felt like hours.    
  
       “I can’t do this again,” he finally said, his voice cracking a little.  
  
       “Is it the John thing, or is it the album?” Linda asked, trying to narrow down the issues.  
  
       “ _All_ of it!” Paul repeated with irritation.  _Hadn’t she heard what he said?_  
        
       “Help me understand.  Is it about telling the kids?”  
  
       “ _Yes!  And everything else!  I have thoroughly fucked up everything!_ ”  Paul’s voice was aching now.  It was bordering on anguish.    
  
       Linda pulled herself up to a sitting position, too, and tried to get a grip on her emotions.  _This was bad.  This was new, and it was bad._ She wasn’t sure what to say, and then intuitively decided that “nothing” was the answer.  _Just hold him_.  She pulled him into her arms, and at first he was stiff, but then he relaxed and began to cry, softly.  Soon, there were sobs.  And still she said nothing.    
  
       Several minutes went by - maybe as many as twenty.  The sobbing had ended only moments after they began, but only due to a great force of effort on Paul’s part.  He was afraid of falling completely apart, because then he might not be able to pull it together again.  He had been humiliated over his inability to complete the sexual act with John, and had avoided discussing it with John for days now.  He was not creeping out of his bedroom at night to meet John in the pool house.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be with John; it was just that he feared he’d blank again in the sexual department.  He knew he had to rope the chaos all in again if he was around John – the fear, the anxiety, the sense of certain impending doom – but he couldn’t.  He couldn’t corral it all – bits kept escaping from his roundup.  Then when he went after _those_ bits, _other_ bits got away from him!  It was hopeless.  
  
       “Linda, I can’t face it,” he said against her shoulder.    
  
       Gently, Linda persuaded Paul to lie down again, and she held him in her arms.  She was soothing him with shushing sounds, little nothing sounds like she made for the children when they were young, tired and sick.  And finally, _finally,_ he fell asleep again.  Linda lay awake for much longer, hoping that when they woke up again, and it was bright outside, this would all have been but as a dream.  
  


*****

  
  
       John was cheerfully eating his corn flakes and chatting with May.  For the moment, he wasn’t worrying about the issues he had with Paul.  He had a fresh squeezed glass of orange juice ( _really, Linda was amazing_ ), he could smell the eggs being made ( _again, Linda, ya gotta hand it to her_ ), and the Caribbean was turquoise and green again.  Sean and James were quietly squabbling at the end of the table over some card game they were playing, and the teens and twenties were all still in bed.  It was another glorious morning in Montserrat.    
  
       Linda brought out a serving platter full of scrambled eggs and “hashed brown” potatoes, and then followed it with a huge bowl of fresh cut tropical fruits.  
  
       “Where’s Paul?” John asked on the upbeat.  
  
       Having delivered the fruit bowl, Linda sat down and began filling her plate.  She gathered up her thoughts.  
  
       “He’s still in bed,” she said finally.  It sounded better than _He refused to get up.  He has the covers over his head._  
  
       “Well, that’s a first!  Mr. Rise ‘n Shine still in bed while I’m awake and kicking!” John responded loudly, causing May to giggle.  Linda smiled, but her smile was strained.  
  
       After a pleasant 20 minutes of eating, and after James and Sean had disappeared into the house, Linda finally screwed up her courage and said, “John, we have to talk.”   
  
       John’s dancing eyes suddenly stilled, and he met Linda’s eyes with a sense of purpose.  “Yes?” he asked.  
  
       Linda nodded.    
  
       It took a moment or so, but May said, “I have a few things to do,” and she got up to leave.  
  
       “No, May, stay,” Linda said.  “It’s silly.  You should hear this too.”  Linda’s eyes were still stuck on John’s, and John’s eyes had darkened to a charcoal color.  But John didn’t shoo May away either.  
  
       May sat down, a little uncomfortable, and wondering if she should insist upon leaving.  She looked a bit like a bird sussing out the reliability of nearby human beings who appeared friendly enough – but human beings were unpredictable, weren’t they?   
  
       Linda took a deep breath, and then leaned in a little towards John.  “Paul is in bad shape.”  
  
       John’s face reflected pure shock.  He started to get up as if to run and find Paul.    
  
       Linda grabbed his hand to hold him down.  “He doesn’t want to get up out of bed.”  
  
       “ _What’s wrong_?” May’s concern escaped her, and Linda and John were looking at her as if they had forgotten she was there.  
  
       Linda and John then exchanged a look, and Linda spoke again.  “It’s the album release, but also the _Rolling Stone_ article,” Linda said to May.  
  
       “Oh no.   _Rolling Stone_ hasn’t panned the album, has it?”  May’s expression reflected her low opinion of Wenner and his whole crew.  
  
       John grumbled something; he was thinking about Paul’s inability to complete the sex act with him, and how he had been avoiding John.  Was he embarrassed and ashamed, and was that why he was upset?    
  
       Then Linda spoke again.  “No, the album is doing well.  But the _RS_ article is apparently strongly hinting that John and Paul are more than partners and friends.”  Linda’s voice was no-nonsense, and she watched May’s face closely as she spoke.  
  
       The penny dropped for May.  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said with amusement in her voice.  “Why does _that_ worry him?  People are whispering about _everyone_ nowadays.  This is the ‘80s, and it seems to be the rumor-of-the-day, and most of the rockers are trying to pretend to be bisexual, even if they’re not.”  
  
       John and Linda stared at May for a long moment, surprised at her laissez-faire response to Linda’s revelation.  Then Linda looked at John.  They were both nonplussed.     
  
       John recovered first.  “That may be so, May, but Paul is different.  We come from a time and place where rumors like these are career-enders. And he has children old enough to be hurt by them.”  
  
       May met John’s eyes, and it was clear to John that May was thoroughly confused by the seriousness with which he and Linda were treating the rumors.  “Well,” May said, as if talking to a slow 5 year-old,  “you just deny them of course. Laugh at the rumors.  It isn’t as if they are _true_ after all.  It’ll be a nine days wonder.”  
  
       John and Linda exchanged an uncomfortable look, and Linda’s expression seemed to tell John, ‘ _up to you whether to tell her the truth_.’  John nodded to Linda’s silent comment.  Linda understood that he was asking her to speak.  
  
       “The thing is, May,” Linda said in a low voice.  “It _is_ true.”  
  
       May sat still digesting the words.  They failed to make sense to her for a few moments.  Then she turned to John, and the confusion on her face only increased.  “You mean back in the Beatles?” she asked.  Her confusion could be excused.  The night before she and John had had quite the time of it in bed.  She hadn’t picked up any vibes between the two men during the visit, although…May thought some more.  Although of course John and Paul always seemed to have a kind of invisible intimacy bubble around them whenever she had seen them together.  She had not equated that with _sexual_ intimacy however.  
  
       John got up to leave the table.  Yes, he was chickening out over having to discuss this with May, and in usual Lennon fashion was leaving it up to Linda to deal.  But more strongly, he had an overwhelming need to go to Paul and comfort him.  
  
       As he left, May’s confused expression had moved to Linda’s face.  Linda sighed, thinking to herself that _both_ John and Paul had a tendency to let others clean up their messes.    
        
       “They’re lovers _now_ , too,” Linda said flatly.    
  
       “How?  What?”  May couldn’t understand what she was doing in Montserrat if this were true.  And why was Linda so blasé about it?  And with the kids around?  
  
       “Obviously, we’re sharing what they’re now calling an ‘alternative lifestyle’, May,” Linda smiled a bit as she spoke.    
  
       “Since when?”  
  
       “Let me see, since late ’80- early ’81?”  
  
       “ _Seven years_!”  May was (no pun intended) amazed.  “You’ve been living with this for _seven years_?  How do you _do_ it?”  
  
       Linda sighed deeply.  She had experienced many negative feelings about “the lifestyle” for many long years now, and she had never had anyone to talk to about them.  Strangely, she felt relieved that May was there, clearly ready to see things her way.    
  
       “If you’d told me, back when I was in my twenties, that I would acquiesce in such an arrangement, I would have laughed in your face.  But you know, you love someone, you really love someone to the point where you build your life around him, and then you realize that part of him cannot be fully realized with you, it is like you have only a few choices.  You can ignore it, pretend it isn’t a problem, and then see what happens. You can end the relationship.  Or you can try to find a way to make it all work, so that he can be happy.   It seemed like a simple choice at the time, but I’ve learned over time that any one of those choices was really complicated - full of pitfalls.  I chose the one that let me keep Paul as my lover, friend, and my children’s father, but allowed him to fulfill that other part of himself.  But, what happened was, there have been as many painful experiences – for all three of us - as there have been happy ones.”  Linda stopped for air.  The words had come out in an almost involuntary data dump.  It was time to sum up, because she had been rambling.   “There’s no such thing as ‘happily ever after’ in _any_ scenario, I guess, so I might as well be in _this_ scenario as in any of the others.”  
  
       May had listened to Linda’s words as they tumbled out of her.  Linda’s eyes were filled with tears.  May felt a strong affinity for this woman, who had given up so much in order to make the man she loved happy.  But look what happened!  Her man _wasn’t_ happy.  He was a nervous wreck!  This had to be hard for Linda.  It was “complicated” indeed.  She grabbed Linda’s hand in sympathy.    
  
       “Do the children know?” May asked simply.  
  
       Linda sighed again, and met May’s eyes. May saw the tears rolling down Linda’s cheeks.  “We’ve been discreet with them.  We’ve lived a separate life from John.  Paul spends half his time in London with John, and half his time with me and the kids.  Occasionally we vacation together, but the kids think of him as if he were an uncle.”  Linda’s voice was growing a little stronger.  “Paul and I wanted them to have as normal an upbringing as possible.  So, the problem is, if the public is gossiping about their father’s relationship with John…”  
  
       “Then they may put two and two together and get four, or even five.”  May finished the sentence.  
  
       “Paul didn’t want to have that conversation with them yet.  I think he’s afraid of losing their respect, and maybe even their love.  But now he feels as though he has to have that conversation with them.  His hand has been forced.”  
  
       May nodded.  A silent moment went by during which Linda had retracted her hand, and was repairing her face.  May certainly felt for Linda, and didn’t want to add to her misery, but May had a lot of questions too.  What on earth was John up to, dragging her into this ménage?  Was she supposed to be some kind of cover for his relationship with Paul?    
  
  


*****

  
      
       The darkened bedroom felt tomblike as John entered.  It felt illicit to even go in.  He had never before entered a bedroom while Paul and Linda were actively sharing it.  He locked the door behind him, just in case, and approached the mound in the bed.    
  
       “Pud?  It’s me,” he said in a soft voice, as he sat on the edge of the bed, and rubbed the mound’s back.    
  
       A sound – a cross between a moan and a groan – was emitted from underneath the covers.    
  
       John climbed in under the covers, moving over until he was holding Paul close to him, his nose nudging at the back of Paul’s neck.  He lay there quietly, just holding him, for a few moments, not sure of what to do next.  He knew he had to do or say something, but what?  Where the hell was his creative inspiration when he really needed it? Moments stretched into minutes, and still Paul did not respond to John’s presence, and John did not move or speak.  Finally, John decided upon an approach.  
  
       “Is it because of what happened on the beach?” he asked.  
  
       Paul’s head, half-covered by the sheets and blankets, shook ‘no’.    
  
       “Are you sure?  Because it’s nothing to worry about.  It happens to everyone…”  
  
       “It’s not that,” Paul finally mumbled, grumpily.  He obviously did not want to talk about it.  
  
       “Then it’s the whole _RS_ thing, isn’t it?”   
  
       Silence.  
  
       “We can do this,” John said softly in Paul’s ear.    
  
       Silence.  
  
       “It’s nothing we haven’t faced before.  _Us against Them_ , remember?”  
  
       Paul moved a bit, giving John hope that he was on the right track.  “We’ve been through much worse together,” he crooned.  “This whole thing only _seems_ much worse than it really is.”    
  
       “That’s easy for _you_ to say,” Paul finally snapped.  “People never expect perfection out of you.”  
  
       John heard what Paul said, and agreed with part of it.  “’ _People_ ’ don’t expect perfection out of you, luv, _you_ do.  You do this to yourself.”         
                 
       Paul felt attacked by the remark.  _No one_ knew how hard it was for him to live up to everyone’s expectations.  For some reason, the bar was always higher for him than it appeared to be for anyone else.  It had been that way since he was a child, and it felt no different now.  Others were allowed to fail at school, or act badly in public, or get arrested for pot, or release a less-than-stellar album.  Others would get a bye.  _We expect more from you, Paul_.  He was so sick of it.  Even John, _especially_ John, didn’t understand, because John was allowed to sail through life without any expectations at all.  Whatever he might do wrong was not only excused but even lauded.  _Oh –_ _he hit his wife?  How brave of him to admit to it!  What pain he must have been in to do it!_ _Oh – his album didn’t sell?  Of course it didn’t! He is telling an ugly truth_ _and only the special few will understand it!  How courageous of him to even try!_ _Oh – he has a heroin addiction?  How cool and anti-establishment he is!  He is such a tortured soul!_  
  
       And, worse, Paul knew exactly how these _new_ rumors were going to go down, too:  _Oh – John has a male lover?  How adventurous and bohemian of him – too bad about his choice, though, but there is no accounting for taste.  But Paul – ‘Mr. Family Man’ – what a hypocrite!  And besides, everyone always knew Paul was a closet case.  John’ll tire of him soon…_  
  
       John had felt Paul’s body grow stiff again, and Paul had clammed up.  _Damn!  He said something wrong again!  Sometimes talking to Paul was like picking your way across a minefield._ He changed tactics and tried again.  
  
       “We’ve gone too far to back out now, Pud,” he said softly.  “If we do, the bastards win.”  
  
       Now Paul was irritated.  “I _know_ that, John, _don’t I_!” he snapped.  “Can’t I have a little minute to be pissed off about it?”  Paul’s anger seemed to be directed at John, and this was surprising to John, because he couldn’t see how this was his fault.    
  
       “You’d rather be alone?” John asked, rejection welling up in his throat.  
  
       “Yes,” Paul said harshly.  “I’ll say something I don’t mean if you stay here, John,” Paul’s voice was disgruntled.  “I just need to be left alone.”    
  
       John was genuinely hurt.  He tried not to be.  He tried to tell himself that Paul was striking out because he was in pain, and he wasn’t really rejecting John’s comfort and love.  But John was John, and naturally this felt like rejection to him.  He disentangled himself from Paul, and got out of the bed.  He headed for the door, hoping that Paul would call him back.  Paul didn’t call him back.  He left the room, forcing himself not to slam the door as he left.  
  
  


*****

  
  
       Linda and May sat in a not-unfriendly silence for a long time before May had the urge to ask.  
  
       “Why am I here?”   
  
       Linda looked up, and felt a thrum of guilt pass through her.  Why indeed?  She had invited May so that if the press got wind of the trip, they would all have credible deniability.  But John had made it clear that he didn’t want to use May that way.  His willingness to let May come along must have been motivated by something else - something more pure.    
  
       “I think John honestly enjoys your company, and wanted to spend time with you,” Linda finally said.    
  
       “Are you sure I’m not just a beard?”  May asked abruptly.  
  
       Linda’s smile covered her wince.  “I might have thought something like that,” Linda admitted, “but I was only selfishly thinking of my husband and children.  John told me flat out he would never allow you to be treated that way.”    
  
       May took it all in, and decided not to hold it against Linda.  She had enough on her plate as it was already.  It must be awful to have to contemplate sitting your kids down to explain to them that daddy has a male lover – and oh, by the way, he is your Uncle John.  May thought about the McCartney kids.  She hadn’t really gotten close to Heather.  Heather was a bit different, and she hung around mostly with her boyfriend.  And James was a young boy, like Sean, and of course she thought they were both cute and entertaining, like most young boys are.  But Mary and Stella – she really _really_ liked them.  They were smart, and funny, and empathetic, and beautiful, and full of life and laughter.  She couldn’t imagine either girl reacting to the news in a seriously negative way.   She doubted either one of them would be thrilled with the news, but she also couldn’t see either one of them falling into a decline over it, either.  She also had noticed that they were incredibly protective of their father, and would never let him see it if they were hurt or upset by the news.    
  
       “Do you think Mary and Stella suspect anything?” May finally asked.  
  
       Linda shrugged.  “They might.  I wouldn’t be overly surprised.  They would never say anything to me or their dad about it, though, if they did.”    
  
       May nodded, and then had a thought.  “They think of me as a kind of aunt, or older sister.  Do you think they would talk to me about it?”  
  
       Linda’s first reaction was negative.  “They’re _my_ daughters, and it is _my_ responsibility to talk to them about this.”      
  
       “Of course, of course.  It was just an idea,” May back-peddled.    
  
       Linda softened a bit.  “ _After_ we talk to them, it might be a good idea if you allowed them to open up a bit,” she said, thinking aloud.  “They are going to act around us as though it is no big deal, to protect us, so maybe if you ask them about it later, they’ll open up more with you.”  
  
       May nodded.  This made sense.  “I’ll do that then.  Just let me know when you think it is a good time to do it.”    
  


*****

  
  
       John left Paul’s bedroom, and stormed into the room he shared with May.  He banged around in there angrily for a few moments, his anger fueled by fear.  Was this potential exposure enough to drive Paul away from him?  John didn’t know why he wasn’t bothered by the potential exposure the way Paul was, but he found that he was actually a little relieved to have the prospect of a time ahead of him when he could finally live openly and honestly.    
  
       But for Paul it was obviously harder.  He has this family… John knew that it was the most important thing to Paul, and for whatever reason – it didn’t have to be rational or logical – Paul felt that his family was seriously threatened.  John knew he had to do his part to make this easier for Paul, but he didn’t know what that was.  He would have to find Linda, and they would have to come up with some kind of strategy.  
  
       He found her still seated at the table on the balcony overlooking the ocean.  The ocean didn’t look quite so lovely to John at that moment as he slid into the seat across from her.  May was no longer there.  Linda looked up, and John reached a hand out to her, and she grasped it.   
  
       “How is he?” she asked.  
  
       “He threw me out,” John admitted ruefully.  
  
       “He doesn’t like people seeing him like this,” Linda said.  “He didn’t want me there either.”    
  
       They fell silent for a few moments.    
  
       “Is it just me, or does this seem like a gigantic overreaction?” John finally asked Linda.  “I mean, it’s just Jann and his gossip-mongering again.”  
  
       “This time it’s true,” Linda said succinctly.    
  
       John could see the distinction, but not the difference.  “True, not true.  It doesn’t matter.  Its just noise, and it eventually goes away.  Paul knows this – hell, he’s usually much better at dealing with it than I am.”  
  
       “I doubt that seriously,” Linda said with a wry smile on her face.  “Paul is _terrible_ at it.  In public, he manages to hide his feelings, but in private he falls apart.”  
  
       John was staring at Linda and he had to think hard about what she had said.  He’d been so self-absorbed in the ‘60s that he rarely if ever thought about what paroxysms of stress Paul might have been enduring.  In the past year he had seen a lot of this previously unnoticed side of Paul.    
  
       “So what do we do?” John finally asked.  
  
       “He’ll get up eventually, and he’ll talk himself into doing what he has to do, we’ll talk to our children, and then we’ll pick up the pieces and move on,” Linda said.  “We just have to wait, and leave him alone, until he is ready to face it.”    
  
       “That’s what I don’t get, I guess.  What is ‘it’ that he is facing?  He is an incredible dad to his kids, they adore him, and they aren’t going to stop loving him over this for heaven’s sake!”  
  
       “He doesn’t want to let them down.  He doesn’t want them to lose respect for him.”  
  
       “Because he is bisexual?”  John asked, still mystified.  He hadn’t kept secrets from Sean, and Sean still loved and respected him.    
  
       Linda jerked at the word ‘bisexual’.  She had never thought of Paul that way.  She thought of him as straight, but with this one inexplicable weakness for this one particular man.  But maybe John was right?  Well, it was an entirely moot point.  It didn’t matter, since with two demanding lovers, Paul had his hands full, and wasn’t going to be looking for any more lovers – male _or_ female!  This thought made Linda smile a little, and then she remembered John had asked her a question.  
  
       “Paul might _think_ that his kids will think less of him because he is in love with a man.  But what he really fears, I think, is the thought of his children losing their nuclear family.  In their minds, we McCartneys are a tribe, a band, a singular unit.  To find out that their father had this whole other life going on for years behind their backs…it might feel like a betrayal to them.  I think that this is starting to dawn on Paul, and he feels guilty about hiding the truth from them all these years.”  
  
       “Oh.”  That was all John could think to say.  That was heavy, and he began to understand why Paul felt angry and disappointed with himself, and also why he might also blame John a bit.    
  


*****

  
  
       Mary and Stella were down by the pool, having dragged themselves out of bed late.  They were both figure-conscious, and had avoided their mother’s delicious-smelling breakfast.  It was now just past lunch, and their mother had brought them some fresh fruit to eat because they were now avoiding the mouth-watering, gallomping-great cheese and pickle sandwiches she had made for the others.  The girls were picking at their fruit as their mother picked up toys and wet towels from around the pool – detritus left by James and Sean, who had recently abandoned the pool and had disappeared into the house for lunch.      
  
       “Where’s Dad?” Mary asked.  “We haven’t seen him this morning.”  
  
       “Yeah, usually he is doing laps before we even think about getting up,” Stella joked.  
  
       “He’s not feeling so well this morning, and is staying in bed.”  
  
       “ _Daddy?_ ” Stella yelped.  This was totally out of character.  
  
       “I think he’s nervous about the album release,” Linda told them.  
  
       “Oh, yeah, _that_ …” Mary said.  Both she and Stella had witnessed Paul’s mini-breakdowns whenever his solo albums had been released.  They had watched their mother stoically propping him up throughout, and had even aped her strategies on occasion.  
  
       Linda disappeared back into the house after laying out the towels to dry on a stone wall.    
  
       “Dad’s been weird this trip,” Stella said.  “Have you noticed?”  
  
       “Like he’s really nervy or something,” Mary agreed.  “It didn’t occur to me it might be the album.”  
  
       “John seems calm about it though,” Stella reflected.    
  
       “Well, you know _Dad_ …”    
  
       The girls smiled in acknowledgement of their beloved father’s high-strung personality.    
  
       Stella let the silence sit for a few moments.  “I wonder why John brought May along this time,” she mused.  It had been bothering her a little all along.  “He’s never brought a woman before.”    
  
       “Well, maybe his relationship with her has reached that stage where they want to be together more,” Mary assayed.  
  
       “It’s weird, though, kind of, because of – you know…” Stella was speaking cryptically, but Mary knew what she was thinking.  
  
       “We don’t know for sure about that, Stella.  John flat out denied it, after all.”  
  
       “But he would, wouldn’t he,” Stella responded.  
  
       “It’s none of our business, either way,” Mary added.    
  
       “If it’s true, do you think Mum knows?” Stella persisted.  They’d had this conversation a number of times over the past several months, but it always ended the same way: in a draw.  
  
        “I can’t imagine she wouldn’t,” Mary responded.  “I mean, if _we_ notice stuff, it seems unlikely _she_ wouldn’t.”  
  
       “If so, then, why would she put up with it?  That’s what I don’t get.”  
  
       “We don’t even know if it’s true, Stell,” Mary said firmly, trying to shut the conversation down.  
  
       “He’s with him half the time, Mary!  I don’t get why she allows it.”    
  
       “Oh well, whatever the truth is, there’s nothing we can do about it, and if Mum and Dad are okay with it, _we_ shouldn’t be bothered,” Mary said.    
  
       They both decided to change the subject since the topic’s discussion never got them any further down the road to understanding from this slightly bemused place they were in now.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul Melts Down, Part Tres (I'm doing a multi-lingual thing here)
> 
> Eastman deals with RS fallout. Paul tries to pull himself together, and he manages to fool even Linda. He and John drift apart a bit.

         John Eastman was staring at the first page of the _RS_ article again.  He regarded the provocative title:  ‘ _Last Year’s Echo:  Lennon & McCartney Rekindle The Flame.’ _ The title blared out over the top of another one of Leibowitz’s striking photographs.  In this one, the two men were still standing next to each other with arms crossed, but John was facing Paul and had obviously made a funny remark, because John was grinning and Paul’s eyes were cast downward, as he unsuccessfully stifled a laugh.  One of Paul’s hands was in the blurry act of reaching up to cover his mouth.  This photo had obviously been taken in between poses, and neither man seemed to have been aware that the camera was about to click at that moment.  It was a strangely intimate shot.  
  
         _Crap._ The gossip was intense in the press and in the industry.  He was fielding calls every day from reporters and insiders – people he knew from the various disciplines in the music business – wanting to know ‘the truth’.  And it wasn’t just the article.  The article had simply put its finger on the harder truth to hide – the meanings of the songs on the album.  Eastman had listened to them again from the angle of searching for a romantic connection between the two men, and lo and behold the hints and clues and tells were popping up everywhere!  Strange how he hadn’t noticed this before.  No one else around the office had noticed it either, because now they were all sitting around – shell-shocked - giving each other guilty looks.  They had been prepared for dealing with less-than-favorable reviews, but none of them had been prepared for this.  To most of them, it had come out of left field, but once it was pointed out to them, they were hard-pressed to know what to make of it all.  
  
         Well, Eastman thought, at least the others didn’t know for sure.  _He_ knew, but he was the only one in the office who did know.  The one call he had fielded that had left him with a sense of guilt was the one he had taken from Neil Aspinall, Apple’s CEO.  
  
         “What the hell is going on?”  Neil had asked him.  
  
         Eastman had pled ignorance.  “Geesh, Neil, you never know what these reporters are going to do or write.  We’re all a little surprised that this thing has taken on such momentum.”  
  
         “Why haven’t John or Paul responded to it yet?” Neil asked.  He felt protective of them, and his concern was motivated by his vestigial feelings of kinship with them, more than by the fear of a backlash that could hurt the Beatles’ legacy.  
  
         “Our first thought was to ignore it – not to give it any credence.  But we may have to rethink that,” Eastman admitted.  “We’re contemplating just releasing a short but clear denial.  What do you think?”  
  
         Neil swallowed hard before speaking.  “Yes, that would work.  Unless it’s _true_.”  
  
         Eastman quickly responded, “What do you mean by that?”  
  
         “I’ve known them for decades, John,” Neil finally said.  “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if there wasn’t at least _some_ truth to it.”  
  
         Eastman wanted to be open and frank with Neil, but it wasn’t his news, and so it wasn’t his choice to make.  “Paul is happily married to my sister, and John has taken May Pang on holiday with them all.  The rumors are just wild conjecture.”  
  
         Neil took that in, and then said, “Well, in case there is _any_ truth to it, you should advise them to be careful about what they say.  Saying nothing is better than saying something that can be proven false later.  Don’t let them get pushed into a corner over this.  I think humor is the best bet.  Surely, John can think of some smart ass joke to say that will push them all off with a laugh.”  
  
         Eastman had a genuine laugh over that, and felt his spirits lifting a little.  “You’re right.  We’re all taking this far too seriously.  I’ll pass your advice on to them.”  
  


*****

  
        Meanwhile, May had found John moping in their bedroom, and had gone in to see if she could cheer him up a bit.  He was seated on the bed, his back to the headboard, a guitar in his hands.  
  
         “So, Linda tells me I’m not a ‘beard’.  Is that true?”  Her eyes were gentle and twinkling, as she sat down on the foot of the bed, facing him.  
  
         John chuckled.  “No, you’re not, but you _can_ be if you want.  The position’s open.”  
  
         As usual, John’s remark was as painful as it was amusing.  
  
         “Well, maybe I’d be willing to be a _quasi_ -beard, like maybe a small goatee,” May suggested, her eyes dancing.  
  
         “ _A beard with benefits_!” John declared, and they both chuckled a bit.  
  
         After a brief silence, May spoke more seriously.  “Can you explain this to me?  Why are we even together?”  May was seeking understanding.  
  
         “I like you for yourself, May, it’s no big mystery.”  John saw the uncertainty in her eyes, and he decided to be straight with her.  _No pun intended_ , he joked to himself.   “I do enjoy your company, and the sex is great.  I just don’t want you to walk away from your life – your job, your friends - because I will _never_ voluntarily leave Paul, and he will _always_ be first.”  
  
         May nodded fatalistically.  She _had_ begun to hope, but… she had always loved John, and he had never really loved her.  At least not the way she wanted or needed.  “Linda explained a little of it to me,” May finally said.  “She seems like she is at the end of her rope.”  
  
         “What do you mean?” John asked, worried.  It was bad enough Paul was freaking out.  If Linda did too, he’d be the only one left holding the bag, and this was not something John had bargained for!  
  
         “She’s beside herself, I think, but trying to hide it from everyone.  Who has she got to talk to?  She can’t tell you or Paul how hard it is.  Or her children.  Anyone else she might tell, could tell someone else and then there’d be gossip.  She’s kind of neither here nor there.  It’s really hard on her.”   
  
         John let that sink in.  He’d never really looked at it from Linda’s perspective.  It had to really suck being her sometimes, he admitted grudgingly to himself.   But she had it better than _he_ did, he quickly reminded himself, since she had Paul legally and openly.  
  
         “So what’s going to happen now?” May asked.  
  
         “Linda and I are waiting for Paul to get up and face the music.  Then he and Linda are going to talk to their daughters, and later Paul and I are going to talk to my sons.”  
  
         “What about James?”  
  
         “He’s too young.  Linda says they’re gonna wait until we get back to London, and see how bad the rumors are, before they decide what to do about him.”  
  
         “Won’t the others let it slip around him?” May asked.  
  
         John was annoyed.  Why was May always pointing out the stuff he didn’t want to think about?    He shrugged off his irritation.  “Sean might, but I’m going to address that directly with him so he knows he shouldn’t say anything about it, one way or the other.”  
  
         May nodded.  She guessed this was the best anyone could expect.  Still…  “I think you’re all making way more of this than you need to.  Kids are worldlier these days.  I don’t think this is going to be a shock or a tragedy to any of them.”  
  
         “I hope you’re right – in fact I know you’re right about my sons – but if you’re not right, I might lose Paul forever.”  This had slipped out of John’s mouth without his volition, and May saw the plain fear in John’s eyes.  
  
         “I don’t know all that much about your intimate relationship,” May said, “but I know this much.  If Paul can forgive you for _How Do You Sleep,_ he’s hardly going to hold the fact that he loves you against you.”  This seemed so obvious to May that she was surprised she had to say it.  
  
  


*****

  
  
        It was almost 2 p.m. before Paul bestirred himself from the bedroom.  He had been giving himself a tough talk for hours, and then he took a long, hot shower, and had deliberately numbed his brain.  If he just put himself on automatic, he could get through it.  
  
         When he emerged on to the balcony, he saw Linda there, lounging in a chaise and reading a cookbook.  She put the book down and looked up.  Her eyebrows framed a question.   Paul’s smile was more of a grimace than a grin, but at least he was trying.   She patted the side of the chaise, and moved over a bit to make room for his bum.  He sat down.  
  
         “I’m sorry Lin, for being such a clod,” Paul said sheepishly.        
  
         Linda gave him a genuine smile.  “You’re entitled!”  
  
         Paul threw his head back and gifted her with a genuine laugh for their private joke.  Then he grew serious again.  “How do you think they will take it?” he asked, his face a study in uncertainty.  
  
         “Heather will clam up.  She will be overwhelmed for a while.  She will wander off, maybe even cry a little, and then she’ll talk about it with her boyfriend.”  
         
         “Why will she cry?” Paul asked, suspecting that Linda had it right, because she always was right about these things, but wishing it wasn’t true.  
  
         “You were the white knight who came along, and whisked her up, and gave her a family.  She adores you in a way that the others don’t, because she knows what it was like not to have such a loving, involved father.  She has a little fantasy about it in her head, and things that make her rethink that fantasy will be upsetting to her at first.  But she’s a grown woman, and she will adjust.”  
  
         “Are you sure about that?”  Paul asked.  He desperately wanted Linda to be right.  
  
         “Paul – she _adores_ you.  She thinks you’re perfect.  But it is about time that she learned that you’re a man - a good man – but a man like any other man, and you’re _not_ perfect.  One way or another, she needs to learn that lesson.  It might as well be now.”  
  
         Paul nodded.  “And Mary?”  
  
         “Mary and Stella are plucky and resourceful.  They know you’re not perfect, but they love you the way you are.  I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t already wonder about you and John.”  
  
         “Really?” Paul asked weakly.  “That’s what John says,” he added.  
  
          Linda thought about it for a bit.  “They may even have more questions for me, than they do for you.”  
  
         “Questions for _you_!  What could they possibly ask about _you_!  None of this is _your_ fault!”  Paul’s kneejerk loyalty to Linda leapt into action.  
  
         Linda smiled.  “They may wonder why I allowed it to happen.”  
  
         Paul looked at her quizzically.  
  
         Linda explained.  “They’re on the cusp of being young women themselves.  Of course they’re going to identify with me.  They’re going to wonder why I would be okay with a husband who had another lover.  It will be less about him being a man; it will be about me accepting that you have another lover.”  
  
         Paul had never thought of that.  “Oh,” he said, taken aback.  “If they ask, what are you going to say?”  
  
         “Whatever comes out of my mouth at the moment,” Linda said, pushing the hair back off her face.  “I’ve always acted on instinct, my whole life, so I don’t see why I should stop now.”  
  
         Paul smiled affectionately at her, and grabbed her hand.  He pulled her palm up to his mouth, and he playfully nipped at it.  “Have I told you lately that I don’t deserve you?” he asked her, his eyes twinkling.  
  
         Linda was happy to see those twinkles again.  “No, you haven’t,” she said with a play-pretend pout.  “And you can’t say it enough to satisfy me!”  
  
         Chuckling, Paul leaned in and began nuzzling her on her neck, while he stroked her side.  She had a way of making him feel whole and safe when bad shit was happening to him, and he was eternally grateful for it.  
  
         “When should we tell them?”  Linda asked him gently, as he finally pulled away and sat back up.  
  
         “No time like the present,” he said firmly, stiffening his spine.  “You gather the girls, and let me tell John what we’re up to.”  
  
         Although to Linda Paul seemed to be getting himself together, this was only one of Paul’s hastily constructed façades.  Paul knew he had to tell his children, in the same way a condemned man knows he has to walk down the hall to the gas chamber, but neither man could be said to be truly resigned to his fate.  
  


*****

  
  
        John and May had just finished their conversation when they were interrupted by a knock on the door.  
  
         “John?”  They heard Paul’s voice.  
  
         May hopped up and opened the door.  She smiled at Paul and then kept walking.  Paul came in and sat on the side of the bed.  For a long moment the two men regarded each other.  John was finding it hard not to let a little hurt and resentment show.  He was _John_ after all.  Paul certainly saw it, and felt a pang of guilt.  Here was another person he had hurt by letting his feelings get out of control, so here was another person he had to puff himself up for.  
  
         “I acted like a jerk,” Paul said.  
  
         “Yeah, you did,” John responded.  And then gave him one of his clown-like closed-mouth smiles.  
  
         “I get like that sometimes,” Paul said slowly.  
  
         “So I have noticed.”  
  
         “You’re making it hard for me,” Paul said with a bemused smile, “but why does that surprise me?”  
  
         John broke down and laughed.  “So, is it out of your system now?”  
  
         “Maybe for the time being,” Paul said with equal amusement.  And, unfortunately, the answer was honest.  
  
         “Let’s hope so.  It isn’t the end of the fucking world, you know,” John added forcefully.  “There are a whole lot worse things that could happen, and this is just the predictable outcome of the choice we made years ago.”  
  
         Paul listened to John with an intent, sober expression.  “I hadn’t thought it through, John.  You know how it is.  When your children are young, you never really think of them being grown ups.  It seems so far away in time.  And if I had thought about it – how it would feel to have to look them in the eye and tell them this – I’m not sure I could ever have made the choice that I did.”  Paul’s eyes were serious, and now it was John’s turn to look intent, and sober.  
  
         Rather than react in fear and anger, John swallowed, and absorbed Paul’s comment.  John knew that even if Sean and Julian had been traumatized by his choice, he would still have chosen Paul.  Here it was again, the inner voice: _Paul’s family always comes first, before me.  Starting with fucking Jim McCartney and Auntie Jin.  Nothing ever changes._ But this time John told that voice to sit down and shut up.  It was futile to angst about it, and worse than that it wasn’t even true!  In the end Paul _had_ chosen him over Jim McCartney, and he _had_ risked his family’s happiness to be with him.  Maybe Paul needed to believe he would have made a different choice, but John’s new, stronger voice told him that it would not have been such a clear choice for Paul, no matter what he was saying now.  
  
         Paul was talking again, and John forced himself to listen.  “Linda and I are going to talk to the girls in a few minutes.  I thought I would warn you.  Afterwards, their attitudes towards you might change.”  
  
         “If so, I’ll talk to them about it,” John said.  “They’re smart girls, very with it.  I think they’ll be a lot more understanding about it than you think.  May thinks so too.”  
  
         “ _And_ Linda.  _I’ll_ believe it when I see it.”  Paul got up and strode purposely from the room, his mind still on automatic.   
  
         John watched him go, and then strummed a loud chord on his guitar.  He’d wait until Paul was done, and then they would approach Julian together.  He wanted to talk to Sean separately.  That conversation was a lot trickier, really.   
  


*****

  
        Linda had selected a quiet corner of the great room for their little talk.  The afternoon had started to cool down, and the large ceiling fan was undulating, causing the gauze-like curtains to puff and ripple.  They were all giggling together, girl talk, as Paul came in.  He found the spot Linda had saved for him next to her on the sofa, and plopped down.  She handed him a pina colada that she had made with an extra dollop of rum, and that is when Paul noted that all the girls had a frosty drink too – even 16 year-old Stella.  He smiled at Linda ( _she thinks of everything_ ) and clinked her glass with his.  He had his game face on.  
  
         “Ok you two, what’s it all about?” Stella asked bluntly.  “I hope you’re not pregnant again.  Too embarrassing to explain to our friends, since _their_ parents don’t _do it_ anymore.”  
  
         “ _Stella_!”  Mary and Heather had both squealed at once.  Everyone laughed, even Paul.  Paul saw Stella in that moment with clear eyes.  She wasn’t his baby girl any more, and obviously no moss was growing on her!  He was, to his significant surprise, a little proud of that fact.  
  
         “Your Dad and I have to talk to you because when we get back to London, there may be a lot of craziness,” Linda said with no apparent unease.  
  
         “Oh _no_ ,” Mary moaned.  “Don’t tell me the _reviews_ are bad?”  
  
         “It isn’t the reviews,” Paul said softly.  “The reviews are good.  It is what the press are writing.”  
  
         All the girls – all three of them – were staring at him expectantly.  He swallowed, and felt his throat dry up.  
  
         “They are spreading rumors,” Linda said, “about your father and John.”  
  
         Mary and Stella immediately exchanged a knowing glance, which Linda noticed at once.  Heather looked as though she was lost at sea.  
  
         “What kind of rumors?”  Heather asked, clueless.  
  
         “They’re saying that since your father and John lived together part of the time, that this means that there is something more to their relationship than just a creative partnership.”  
  
         “But Dad only lived with John because they were doing the album!” Heather’s voice was strident.  
  
         Paul was thoroughly mesmerized by Linda.  She was handling this as if none of this was any big deal, and she didn’t seem to be the least bit hesitant or embarrassed about the subject matter.  He might as well play along with her.  He could see that Heather was going to need it spelled out for her.  
  
         “They’re implying that we have a romantic relationship,” Paul managed to say in a low voice.  His eyes didn’t quite meet Heather’s.  He hurried to the next sentence.  “We wanted you to hear about these rumors from us, and not have to read them in the papers first.”  
  
         “Oh, _fuck_ ,” Stella declared.  Both Paul and Linda looked at her in alarm, worried by her reaction.  She saw their faces and smiled.  “I get bullied at school enough as it is,” she explained.  “I can hear them all now.”  Then she smiled to show them she could and would handle it.  “I’ve only got three more months there…”  
         
         Heather was still struggling with the information.  “Well, you’ve told them it is a _lie_ , haven’t you?” she asked, her voice stricken and tight.  
  
         Paul looked to Linda for support, and both Mary and Stella noticed this, and then again looked at each other.  _Aha!_ They thought.  
  
         Paul stiffened his back again.  “We won’t be denying it, in so many words,” he said in an uncharacteristically uncertain tone of voice.  
  
         “But _why_?”  Heather was quite upset.  
  
         “It’s not like we’re going to admit it or anything,” Paul said quickly, “but we aren’t going to deny it either.”  
  
         Heather looked at her mother for help.  “Why _not?_ ”  
  
         Linda reached across the space to the chair where Heather was seated, and grabbed her hand.  “Because,” she said softly, “your father _does_ have a romantic relationship with John, and it wouldn’t be honest to deny it outright.”  
  
         Heather sat back as if her mother had slapped her.  Her mouth hung open a little.  Meanwhile, Mary reached over and grasped Stella’s hand, and was squeezing it tightly, conveying to her that she needed to keep her trap shut.  All they _didn’t_ need right now was another one of Stella’s wisecracks.  
  
         Paul spoke again.  “We think the whole thing will be relatively subtle, and that it will blow over soon, so we’re not mentioning anything to James right now.”  He stopped and stared each of his daughters in their eyes, one at a time, and added, “I don’t want any of you saying a word to him about it.  And if he asks any questions about it, don’t answer him, but tell your mother or me.”  
  
         Mary and Stella, still squeezing hands, nodded wordlessly.  Heather was still in shock, leaning back in her chair and staring at her parents as though she had never seen them before.  She finally said,  
  
         “ _Mom!_ You’re _okay_ with this?”  
  
         Linda saw Heather’s angry face – was that betrayal?  And this hurt more than she had expected it to hurt, even though she had anticipated something like this.  
  
         “It isn’t about being ‘okay’ with it,” Linda said softly.  “It is about understanding that you never do own or possess another human being.  If you love someone, you have to let them be who they are, or you kill that love.”  
  
         Mary and Stella were intently listening, glad that Heather had asked the question, because they would have been too sensitive to their mother’s feelings to do so, but they desperately wanted to hear the answer.  It was Mary – ever empathetic, ever nurturing, who spoke next.  
  
         “Are you two okay?  Is this going to change anything?”  Although Mary had asked the question, there were three pairs of huge eyes waiting for an answer.  
  
         Paul and Linda both smiled – Linda smile was warm and sure, but Paul’s was a little sickly.  Paul said as though making a sacred vow, “Nothing will ever change what your mum and I have, or what we feel for you.  _Nothing_.”  The children were not used to this kind of intense seriousness from their father.  It was completely out of character.  As one they all looked to their mother for some kind of normalcy.  
  
         Seeing this, Linda added, “Life’s a lot more complicated than you think it is when you’re young.  But you’re old enough now to understand that you should never stop growing and learning.  If you try to stop it, everything goes wrong.”  
  
         “And another thing is, we don’t want you blaming John,” Paul said firmly.  He looked to Linda for support, and she chimed in.  
  
         “The three of us have an understanding, and we’re okay with each other, and none of us is the villain,” she pronounced.  
  
         Stella had regained the power of speech.  “Well, _I’m_ not going to get _my_ knickers in a twist over this,” she said.  “As far as I can see, it’s been going on for years, and nothing bad has happened yet.”  
  
         Mary stifled a giggle, and tried to meet her father’s eyes.  He was staring at his hands, and looked utterly miserable:  humiliated and miserable.  Her heart went out to him.  
  
         But it was about this time that Paul forced himself to rally, for the sake of his family.  He made himself smile, and drawled, “Well, Stella, I’m sure we all feel _much_ better knowing that you’ve got it all in hand.”  
  
        

*****

  
  
        Neither parent thought it was really over.  It had only just begun.  Heather had, in fact, not seen the humor in any of it, and had run off stifling dramatic cries to the arms of her boyfriend.  And Mary and Stella had wandered off acting as though nothing extraordinary had happened, but were probably now busily recapping it all, and trying to work it all out in the privacy of their shared bedroom.  Paul and Linda looked at each other, and a world of understanding passed between them.  _It is what it is, and we’ll get through this, like we've gotten through everything else_.  Paul, however, had other thoughts.  Darker thoughts.  He felt like a much smaller man in the eyes of his daughters, and he believed he could never get back what he had lost that night.  
  


*****

  
  
        Julian was pleased by but a little suspicious of his Dad and Paul’s sudden desire to have a drink with him alone, out by the pool.  Julian’s girlfriend had stayed up in the house, helping Linda chop vegetables for their dinner.  As they gathered in patio chairs, toasting each other with Caribbean ale, John finally cleared his throat and jumped right in.  
  
         “You probably already know this, and if you do, I’m sorry it took us so long to talk about it with you, but Paul and I love each other, and we share a life together in addition to the one he shares with Linda.”  
  
         Paul swallowed his first gulp of ale in one go, and then gasped painfully.  _Good heavens!_  
  
         Julian was still holding his beer to his lips and was a bit shook up by John’s blitz attack.   
  
         Paul regained his composure, and fell in to his usual role.  “Your Dad put that kind of baldly,” Paul glared at John and made a face as he said this, “but the thing is, there are rumors circulating back home because of our new album, and it seemed best if you heard about this from us, rather than others.”  
  
         “You knew already, didn’t you?”  John asked bluntly, although a bit more gently this time.  
  
         Julian took a sip of ale, and let it slide down his throat while he thought of what to say.  “Yes, of course I knew.  You share the same bedroom.”  
  
         John looked victoriously at Paul.  Paul thought, how like John to go to the _‘I told you so’_ place at a time like this!  
  
         “Do you have any questions about it?” John asked without a hint of shyness.  
  
         “No, but if I ever do, I’ll be _sure_ to ask,” Julian said sarcastically, his face and voice reflecting the icky-ness factor he felt in even _thinking_ about asking - much less hearing the answers to - such questions.  And then he grinned.  
  
         John laughed.  “You don’t _want_ to know, and who can blame you?  I wouldn’t either if I were you.”  
  
         Paul had been watching Julian’s face for some kind of emotion, but wasn’t seeing any.  This troubled him, although it didn’t seem to trouble John.  They all sat quietly for 20 or so minutes, John and Julian making meaningless small talk, and Paul lost in deep thoughts, until they had finished their beers.  
  
         “John, can you get us another round?” Paul asked.  
  
         “Since when am I the errand boy?”  
  
         “I did it for years.  Your turn,” Paul said smartly.  
  
         Grumbling in a good-natured way, John wandered off to the kitchen to get seconds.  Paul turned to Julian.  
  
         “Have I let you down?”  He asked simply.  He had been afraid earlier to look in Julian’s eyes and see the disgust and disappointment there.  
  
         But Julian met Paul’s eyes with genuine surprise.  “No.  How?”  
  
         Paul swallowed, because his throat had dried up completely.  Because of that, his voice sounded scratchy.  “I feel like maybe I’ve let you down, by not being the man you need me to be.”  
  
         Julian’s eyes filled with unwanted tears, but he fought them off.  “You have _always_ been the man I needed you to be,” he finally said, his voice choking off at the end.  “Even when Dad wasn’t, you were.”  
  


*****

       
         The Sean conversation was trickier, and John wanted to think about it a while before approaching him.  The main objective, John thought, was to impress upon Sean that other people – out in the big wide world – could be judgmental and hateful, and they often were cruel about things they didn’t understand.  He was going to have to be explicit in explaining the sorts of things Sean might hear from friends or read in the paper about his Dad and Paul.  There wasn’t the same urgency about having that conversation, at least John didn’t think so, and he decided to wait a day or two before having it.  He didn’t imagine that Sean would have much trouble with it.  
  
         In the meantime, the two families enjoyed a loud, tasty dinner together, with everyone trying very hard to act ‘normal’ and to be cheerful.  The two exceptions to that were Paul and Heather.  Heather was moody and sad-looking, but her boyfriend was trying to make up for it.  John saw this and was sad.  This did not bode well for his sex life.  He was afraid that Paul would not be willing to go there with him for the rest of their time on the island.  John kept glancing at Paul throughout the evening, and saw that he was having a very difficult time keeping his spirits up for the benefit of his children.  Paul was keeping his distance from John tonight, sitting on the other end of the table next to Linda, and when he wasn’t holding her hand he was leaning over and kissing or nuzzling her.  John knew this was for his children’s benefit – to reassure them – but it wasn’t doing his own sense of security any good.  
  
         Eventually, finally, all the young folks had left the room, and only the four older adults remained, sipping wine and speaking softly.  May said, “I’m exhausted, I’m off to bed.”  She looked sideways at John, but John didn’t meet her eyes.  He was staring down into his lap.  She got up, leaned over and kissed John and said, “See ya later sweetie.”  John patted her hand and said nothing.  
  
         Linda got up and said, “Bed for me too.”  
  
         Paul got up immediately, and followed Linda.  As he left, John’s eyes met his and Paul looked guilty.  “Night, John,” he said softly, and he was gone.  
  
         John sat quietly, alone, for a few moments allowing his emotions free reign.   _Was this it, then?  Was this the moment when Paul made a final choice?_  
  
         “John, come to bed with me.”  John looked up and saw that May was hovering in the aperture, partially hidden by a shadow, and looking like a wraith.  She wasn’t the lover he really wanted, but she was the one who was there.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul are back in London, and confront those pesky rumors. And John confronts Paul about his distancing act.

        One Soho Square looked elegant and passive on the outside and in its pristine front lobby, but on the upper floors, the place was bustling.  Paul and John and been loosely working under the production management of MPL (McCartney Productions, Limited) since they had begun writing together again, although they both knew they were going to have to make adjustments to their business arrangements in light of their partnership.  The paperwork was still in the works.  So it was in MPL headquarters that the production team gathered, waiting for John and Paul to arrive.  The duo’s manager was nervous.   
  
         While the single and the album were selling extremely well and getting a lot of air time on the radio internationally, the print articles and reports were focusing almost exclusively on the tantalizing gossip that had been set loose with the release of the _Rolling Stone_ interview.  Anonymous “insiders” were suddenly coming out of the woodwork to tell tabloid reporters that “everyone always knew” that John and Paul were “an item”.  Paparazzi stalked every known Lennon or McCartney house and hangout.  Around Paul’s Sussex estate, they had been flushed out of the bushes and trees by security guards hired for the purpose on an almost hourly basis.  It was a waste of everybody’s time and energy, since Paul was not in Sussex with his family any longer.  He had spent the first few days there with them after the return from Montserrat, but he had decamped to his family home in Cavendish at the start of the new week in order to begin the promotional work for the new album.   
  
         The paparazzi that hung out around Cavendish received some interesting photos, but they didn’t include John.  Paul had brought his daughter Mary up from Sussex with him.  She was starting her new job at MPL, working in the picture department and assisting her mother in cataloging her vast inventory of photograph negatives and proof sheets.  Paul had chosen to move in to Cavendish and stay with Mary, rather than to go back to Maida Vale with John.   This was not only based on Paul’s personal preference at the moment, but was actually necessitated by the fact that the largest numbers of paparazzi were parked in front of and around the Maida Vale townhouse.  Neighbors were beginning to complain about finding random photographers with motorcycles hanging around in the mews, or taking up all the best benches and tables in the adjacent park.  There would be no way for Paul to even visit the townhouse without a major feeding frenzy of photo flashes, so Paul stayed away.   
  
         In a way, now Mary was acting as beard.  It wasn’t planned as such, because Mary had decided to move to London and work for MPL months before, but the timing certainly was serendipitous.   On their first evening alone together in the house, Paul and Mary made a simple meal in the kitchen, and decided to eat at the kitchen table, rather than the formality of the dining room.   
  
         “It certainly is crazy.  They’re four and five deep out there on the sidewalk,” Mary pointed out.  She had seen them from her bedroom window.  
  
         “You’d think they’d find something more interesting to do,” Paul grumbled.  
  
         Mary had been looking for an opportunity to talk openly and honestly with her father about John, but so far none had presented itself to her.  Her dad had made the admission, and then had proceeded to act as if the admission had never happened.  Mary had noticed that her dad had pulled away from John, and was clinging to her mother, and while she understood why he might do that, Mary hoped it wasn’t because he thought _she_ wanted it that way.  In truth, she felt bad for John, who had looked a bit lost and forlorn those last few days in Montserrat.   _How do you do it?  How do you broach such a subject with your own father_?  She felt compelled to do so, because he was trying so hard to be a “normal” dad that he was like a stranger to her.  Where was the silly, goofy, emotional, touchy-feely, loving man that she knew?  He’d never been the world’s most macho of fathers.  He didn’t play sports and he preferred being around his wife and children to boys’ nights out or chasing other women.  But he was _her_ father, the one she recognized and loved, and she wanted him back.   
  
         “We should have invited John for dinner,” Mary tried.  “He must be very lonely all by himself.”  
  
         Paul heard what she said, but couldn’t meet Mary’s eyes.  So he poked at his food a bit.  “Maybe another time,” he said softly, “I’m enjoying this time with you.”   
  
         “Well, I hope he has company…”  
  
         “He’s got lots of friends.  Everyone loves John,” Paul responded.   
  
         “I just – well, this is hard.  I just don’t want you to think you have to exclude him because of _me_ ,” Mary said, putting down her fork and staring across the table at her father, willing him to look up at her.  He finally did.  
  
         “I’m not _excluding_ him,” Paul said, “I just thought it would be nice to spend some time alone with you.”   
  
         Mary smiled in response, but inside she sighed.  He was really uptight about the whole subject, and he clearly did not want to open up about it with her.  Mary couldn’t exactly blame him for that; how could he know that she was a safe one to talk to?  She was his wife’s daughter, after all.   
  


*****

  
  
         There was to be a brief press conference with a dozen or so reporters at MPL headquarters that afternoon, so the hustle and bustle involved getting the press room ready, preparing the press packets, and arranging all the lights and electrical cords for the various cameras.   Neither John nor Paul had been thrilled by the idea of a press conference, but had finally concluded that nothing short of this was going to sate the press’s appetite, and if things were ever going to return to something approximating normal, they had to answer their questions.  
  
         But this is why their manager was so nervous.  He had thought about limiting the press’s questions to just the album, but if John and Paul didn’t answer questions about the rumors, then the rumors would never die down.  So he had to allow the questions to be asked – but how would John and Paul react?  The possibilities were hair-raising.  And John had that iffy temper, and worse than that – who knows what he might blurt out, thinking it sounded good at the time but _not_ thinking about how they’d all pay for it later?   
  
         John.  He had sounded extremely morose on the telephone that morning.  He said he wasn’t feeling well, and wasn’t sure he wanted to attend the press conference.  It had taken a good 15 minutes of cajoling and begging to persuade John that not showing up was a horrible idea.  More worrisome still was the fact that apparently John and Paul weren’t talking.  John had asked, “ _Have you talked to Paul today?  What did he say about it?  Is he coming_?”  This was a bad sign, because usually the two men were so much on the same page that they spoke and thought as one.  He hoped these rumors weren’t pulling the two of them apart.  
  
         John had spent the weekend Paul was in Sussex lying in his bed feeling sorry for himself, and lying on the sofa in the sitting room changing the TV stations with the remote and feeling sorry for himself.   He would periodically cruise past the telephone, and then force himself _not_ to call Paul.  He was desperately trying to follow Linda’s advice – _let him come to you, John.  He will when he’s ready…_ Fuck Jann Wenner!  Fuck the press!  Fuck the paparazzi!  And fuck the whole fucking world!   They all had dealt a huge blow to his relationship with Paul, and John worried that the injury was fatal.   
  
         John had thought about calling his therapist on an emergency basis (she didn’t work weekends except for emergencies), but decided in the end that he really wouldn’t know what to say to her if he did seek an emergency session.  It wasn’t like he was ready to tell her the whole story.  She still didn’t even know about his sexual relationship with Paul.  She thought they were creative partners and for the sake of that renewed creative partnership John was working hard not to repeat the mistakes he’d made the first time around.   He knew he had to break through that last barrier and finally open up with Fiona about Paul, but he guessed right now  - in the middle of all this chaos – his mind was too blurred to be able to discuss the subject with her.  
  
         Monday.  Monday was the day he would see Paul again.  But unfortunately, it was the same day they would have to do the stupid press conference.  John had first suggested a one-on-one with some friendly journalist, but the PR staff had pointed out that until and unless neutral journalists had a crack at the two of them, they weren’t going to believe a word from the “friendly” journalist.  The point was to end or at least reduce the rumors, and refocus on the music.   
  


*****

  
  
         The press conference was to be step one.  Step two was going to be the concert tour, which was in the early stages of development.  The manager was going to have that information leaked to the press just before the conference started.  It was at least _one_ new piece of information that might help distract the press somewhat from the gossip.  
  
         John arrived first, an hour early.  He had nothing to delay or distract him at home, and if he was going to sit around being nervous he might as well do it in a place with a bunch of other people who might at least divert his attention a little.  Also, he wanted to discuss questions and answers with the PR staff.  For once, he was at a loss over how to handle press questions.  Should he respond in a serious tone, or should he make jokes?  What kind of answers might backfire and hurt Paul and his family (because that was the only thing he was worried about at this point.  He had had his talk with Sean on the day before they left Montserrat.)   
  
         John had explained to Sean that there might be items in the press – on the news and in the papers – about Paul and him, and that people might say some rude and embarrassing things about them.  Sean had wanted to know why.  John had tried his best to explain about why many people – maybe even most people – were against two men loving each other.  John also explained a bit about birds and bees – or should he say bees and bees?   Well, a little about both.  Sean, who was 12, had heard a lot of the information already, and had been raised surrounded by gay men (Yoko surrounded herself with them at the Dakota), so nothing John told him shocked Sean.  Still, John had to make it clear that he – Sean – had a rarified upbringing, and most people were quite hostile to men who loved other men.  Sean seemed to take it well, and promised his father that he would call him while with Yoko if he had any questions or concerns.  Because John had spoken with both his sons, and believed his sons were accepting of the truth and prepared for the fallout of the rumors, he was more sanguine for his own sake about the rumors and also about what might happen if he misspoke.  But he was extremely concerned that he might say or do the wrong thing that would end up hurting Paul or his family, which would surely result in Paul pushing John even further away than he had already.  
  
         John was speaking softly with the lead press agent and his staff when a commotion was heard from outside.  John heard voices shouting “ _Paul!”  “Paul_!”   He had survived a similar gauntlet only thirty minutes earlier.       
  
         Paul and Mary arrived together, about a half hour before the press conference was scheduled.  Mary grabbed her father’s hand, and held her head up high, smiling gaily for the cameras, and dragging him along.  He followed suit, and smiled and waved.  They fell into the front lobby, and kept up their cheerful miens until they were safely in the elevator.   
  
         Then Mary turned to her father and said, “They’re man-eaters!”   
  
         “This is unusually wild,” Paul admitted, running his hands through his hair in a vain attempt to smooth it down.  Mary clucked, and when he had finished, she smoothed his hair for him, and then straightened his tie.  Paul smiled at her warmly.   
“You’re a little mother.  You always have been.”  
  
         The elevator doors opened, and they spilled out into the manager’s reception area.  When they entered the room, both of them saw John sitting on the sofa underneath the bank of windows.  Mary headed straight for him, plopping down next to him in a show of solidarity.  
  
         “It’s madness out there, isn’t it?” she asked him sweetly, meeting his eyes and trying to show him through the warmth in them that she was on his side.  
  
         “Yeah, they’re circling before the kill,” John joked, and he allowed his eyes to smile back at her.   
  
         “It won’t be that bad,” Mary laughed.  “If all else fails, lie!”  
  
         John laughed out loud. “Are you sure you want to hear this interview, Mary?” he then asked her with concern.  “It might be kind of difficult for you.”  
  
         “I’m going to be right there in the room so they can all see me,” she said firmly.  “It’s what my mother would do if she were here.  And the only reason she’s not here is because Stella and James are at school, and she needs to be there for them when they get home.”  Unspoken was the understanding that either one or both of them might come home from school with cruel insults ringing in their ears.   
  
         John nodded solemnly.  It was such a bus accident, the whole thing.  Why it was anyone else’s business, John didn’t know, but he supposed he would have to participate in this charade if their lives were going to return to any kind of normalcy.   It wasn’t just all about him anymore.  John had grown beyond that, although he was finding it much more painful and difficult to consider others before talking or acting.  
  
         Although Mary was still chatting, John’s eyes were now tracking Paul, who was talking to the press agent in that all-business way of his that always (secretly) turned John on.  He had always loved to sit back and act dumb and watch Paul go to work on the business folks.   But now there was a nervous knot in his stomach because he wasn’t at all sure where he stood.  As if Paul had sensed John’s eyes on him, he suddenly turned and met John’s eyes.  John didn’t know he looked pained and deeply sad.  Paul’s face melted from businessman to fond friend in a split second.  John could see him politely excusing himself from the PR staff, and then Paul was approaching him.  Mary saw this, and got up and bounced away to talk to the others there, so that they would have to pay attention to her, and not to John and Paul.  
  
         Paul plopped down where Mary had been a second earlier.  “Hey mate, how are you?” Paul asked John softly.   
  
         John knew that they had to – under the circumstances - eschew any sign of intimacy while in a room with other people, so he responded to Paul’s inquiry with as much detachment as possible.  “Oh, _swell_ ,” he said snidely, “I don’t remember _when_ I’ve had this much fun!”   
  
         Paul chuckled and then said in a firm tone, “Whatever they do or say, we’re going to maintain at least a smidge of deniability.”  
  
         John stiffened a little at that.  “I know that, Paul.”  
  
         “I’m just talking out loud, to build up my confidence,” Paul said in a far less confident, more defensive tone.   
  
         John nodded.  He then whispered,  “When am I going to see you alone?”   
  
         Paul automatically looked down at his fingernails – this was a ‘tell’.  He did this when he was asked an awkward question, and he didn’t want the questioner to see his reaction.  
John was angered by it.  
  
         “I’m serious, Paul, this is ridiculous!”  John’s voice had risen a little, and it had garnered some attention from the people across the room.  
  
         “Sssshhhh!” Paul’s finger was at his lips.  This pissed John off even more.  He always _hated_ it when Paul had done that.  
  
         “No, I’m not gonna shush!  You’re gonna talk to me! _When_ are we going to be alone?”  His voice carried, although, thankfully, the words did not.   
  
         Paul schooled his face to look bland and neutral, as if John’s clear irritation was no big deal.  He knew they were the sinecure of all eyes.  He finally settled on an answer that was palatable.  “Come for dinner tonight; it was Mary’s idea,” Paul whispered back, looking at his hands.  
  
         John huffed.  “I said _alone_.”   
  
         Paul squirmed.  “John, it’s impossible.  The pap’s are everywhere.  If you come to dinner, you have to leave at a reasonable hour.  I can’t sneak out to join you, because they’re staking out both of our houses.  We just have to wait until it dies down.  It won’t be much longer, I’m sure.  Some politician will be caught with his pants down any minute now.”  Paul tried a tight smile to go with his half-hearted joke.   
  
         John was not smiling back.  He was glaring at Paul, and refusing to stop.   
  
         “What is _your_ idea then?” Paul asked, helpless.   
  
         “A neutral place – a hotel, maybe, or a friend’s house.  Maybe Ringo will let us meet at his place.”  John was adamant and he wasn’t taking no for an answer.  
  
         Paul nodded slightly.  “I’ll fix something,” he said, giving in.  “I’ll give you a ring when it’s set up.”   
  
         “Tonight!” John ordered.  Paul’s face reflected his acquiescence.  Satisfied finally, John sat back with a placid expression on his face.  He turned to the staffers across the room and shouted, “So what do you lot say we get this fucking thing over with!”  There was general laughter and a lot of movement, as everyone went off about their business.   
  


*****

  
  
         “The press conference is going to last 20 minutes,” the press agent announced to the assembled reporters.  There were 2 video cameras, 4 still photographers and 10 reporters who had been chosen by draw from a pool.   The lights were hot, and the phalanx of reporters and photographers looked like ravenous scavengers to John and Paul as they had taken their seats at a bank of microphones.  _Pack killers, ready to attack_ , John thought fancifully.  Like jackals on the savanna, and he and Paul were the water buffalos.   He turned to share a _chin up_ grin with Paul, who responded in kind.  Paul was a pro, no matter what.  He would do what he had to do and so would John.  
  
         20 minutes wasn’t very long, but it seemed like an eternity to Paul, who took a sip of water and scoped out the situation while looking over the edge of his cup.  The press agent called on a friendly journalist, writing for a British music magazine, first.   
  
         “It’s been two weeks since your album was released.  Why did you choose to be on holiday when it came out?”  
  
         “That was me,” John said readily.  “I was scared out of my wits and didn’t want to be here.”   
  
         The reporter laughed awkwardly, not sure whether the answer was a joke.  “No, really…” he said.  
  
         “Yes, _really_ … “ John assured him.  
  
         Paul jumped in to help.  “It was a chance to have some peace before the storm, and to spend time with our families.  We’re going to be extremely focused on our work for the next several months.”  
  
         Another reporter shouted out.  “John! There are a lot of rumors going around about you and Paul – the nature of your relationship.  Do you have any comment about that?”  
  
         John turned in a dramatically comic way to Paul.  “Why me?  Why always _me?”_  
  
         Paul responded in a calm, logical voice, speaking directly to John, “Because you’re the ‘honest one’.”   The reporters laughed.   
  
         “Well,” John said, turning to the reporters again.  “What can I say?  It’s all true.  We _do_ have a yen for stamp-collecting.  We’ve been trying to keep it secret all these years because the other rockers would laugh at us.”  The assembled audience issued a collective guffaw at that.  
  
         Without dropping a stitch, Paul added, “It’s _humiliating_ having it all come out, it really is…”   
  
         The reporter was not to be put off.  “The theory is that you two are writing to each other on your new album – that the songs are about your relationship.”  
  
         John became serious.  “We gave detailed answers to Jann Wenner’s questions in our interview with him about each song, and we really don’t have anything else to add to that.  We meant what we said, and you’ll see the songs are inspired by a great many things.”  
  
  
         “Song lyrics are like that,” Paul added,  “they’re a bit like a Rorschach test for your ears.  Everyone hears something different.”  
  
         Another reporter shouted out,  “Do you deny that you have a sexual relationship?”  
  
         There was a great amount of nervous twittering in the audience.  Paul’s eyes went involuntarily to his daughter Mary, who was leaning against the wall on the side.  She smiled at him reassuringly.   
  
         John allowed his aggravation to show.  “People can make up anything about anyone, and if they say it long enough, someone is bound to believe it.  It becomes ridiculous that you have to deny things for which there is no evidence in the first place.”  
  
         The reporter ignored John’s response and turned to Paul.  “But Paul, they’re saying your marriage is just a sham!”  
  
         John sneered into the microphone, “Yeah, and his four children are a sham too.  He bought them from gypsies.”  This garnered a respectable amount of sympathetic laughter from the group at large.   
  
         Paul was upset, and trying not to show it too much.  Just enough was right, but not too much.  “See,” he said, “that’s where this whole thing stops being funny for me.  It’s funny until it starts hurting my wife and children.  _‘Sham Marriage._ ’  This is when it becomes insulting and hurtful.  Linda and I have a real marriage, we have always had a real marriage, and we will always have a real marriage.”  
  
         A female reporter asked, “But where is she?”  
  
         “She is at our home, in Sussex, because our two youngest children are still at school.  She needs to be there for them, especially with all this gossip going on.  People should think about the _children_ before they write this stuff.  Not just my children, but also John’s.”  Paul was managing to keep his temper, but just barely.  John noted this and began wondering how he could run interference.  
  
         “So there’s no truth to it at _all_?” One of the reporters asked.  
  
         John was through with it.  “Look, if we ever decide to do it, we’ll have our honeymoon in a hotel room and we’ll invite you all in to take pictures …oh, no wait, I’ve done that before…” The audience roared with laughter.  
  
         Paul’s heart had skipped a beat for a moment, but as the joke became clear, Paul turned to the audience and gave an open shrug.  “I can’t take him _anywhere_ ,” he said helplessly, to more laughter.  
  
         One reporter appeared to have had enough of the rumors and wanted some real news.  “Your manager informed us that you’re going on a concert tour in a few months.  Can you tell us something about that tour?”  
  
         “It’s being planned now,” John said politely.  He was incredibly grateful that the subject had been changed.  “I don’t have much detail.”  
  
         “Watch this space,” Paul added.  
  
         “Paul,” a reporter asked, “will your family be going with you on tour?”  
  
         “Haven’t decided.  Most likely not.  We’ll be traveling during the school year, and the kids like to be with their friends.   But nothing like that has been decided.”  
  
         The loudest reporter asked another question.  “Is it true that you were both vacationing together at George Martin’s house on Montserrat for the past month?”  
  
         John had developed a grudge against that reporter.  “Yeah,” he said, with a sneer on his face.  “It was just Paul and me.  And Linda.  And my girlfriend.  And Paul’s 4 children.  And my 2 children.  It was very intimate and romantic.”  
  
         Paul laughed, having conquered his earlier anger.  “That’s the truth, by the way.  We needed to come home to get some peace and quiet.”  
  
         “Yeah,” John chimed in, “you guys and even the pap’s are _nothing_ in the noise department compared to that crew!”  The audience chuckled.  
  
         The friendly reporter asked, “The album is getting outstanding reviews.  Is that a relief to you?”  
  
  
         John said honestly, “It is to me.”  
  
         “It was a bit tricky,” Paul admitted.  “We were a bit worried.  We knew the album was great, but we just didn’t know if it would be in _style_ , if you see what I’m saying.”  
  
         “But, we shouldn’t have worried,” John continued.  “We’ve always made our _own_ style, and enough people seem to like it, so we’ve always been successful when we work together.”  
  
         “Will you be writing more songs together?” someone from the back shouted out.  
  
         “That’s the plan,” John responded.  
  
         Their press agent called out, “Last question, please.”  
  
         A heretofore very quiet reporter asked, in a calm, logical voice, “The way I interpreted the Wenner interview, it wasn’t so much that he was hinting that you were, em, personally involved, but that you have a very intense, very insular and emotionally intimate friendship and partnership.  Do you agree with _that_ interpretation?”  
  
         This comment stumped both John and Paul with its reasonableness.  Paul recovered first.  “It is true that we are each other’s emotional intimates…” he started, and then petered out.  
  
         John came to his rescue.  “I’ve said this many times before, although no one seems to hear me.  Paul and I know each other on _so_ many levels – we know things about each other that no one else knows.  It is because of what we have been through together.  He is like my twin, or my alter ego.  In other words, he is closer to me than just a regular brother or a good friend.  And Paul’s right.  We _are_ emotionally intimate.  Being creative partners is the most intimate kind of relationship you can have, in my opinion, because that person is literally rummaging around in your _mind_ , and the mind is your most secret place.  So, yes, if that is how you interpret the Wenner interview, then I agree with you.”  
  


*****

  
  
         They were going to meet at Ringo’s London apartment.  Ringo and his wife were in Los Angeles, but he had cheerfully offered up the place when Paul gave him a call.  Paul arrived early to get the key from the housekeeper.   She had thoughtfully started a fire in the sitting room.  Mary had made a baked macaroni casserole from one of her mother’s recipes, and Paul had brought it with him and put it in the oven to finish cooking it.  He also brought along with a few bottles of wine and a good bottle of whiskey.   He didn’t feel right raiding Ringo’s liquor cabinet.   He felt a bit silly; it was as if he was romancing a woman, or something.  
  
         Paul found himself a bit nervous and shy about seeing John.  It reminded him a bit of when they had first met the first time after many years back in 1980, when John had pounced on him in a hotel room.   It had now been a week since he and John had exchanged any physical affection.  A week since he had realized he had to tell his daughters about his relationship with John.  He had tried to be intimate with John, but he wasn’t able to follow through.  It had been humiliating for him, but Paul knew that John was anxious as well as seriously confused about what was going on with him.  He hadn’t meant to upset John, but he didn’t want John to see him impotent and floundering.   
  
         The buzzer sounded, and Paul went to open the door.  John was standing on the doorstep with a huge grin on his face and an equally huge bouquet of flowers in his hand.  Paul had to laugh; it was too funny.   
  
         “Come on in, John,” Paul said with a wry smile, “you’ll find I have the wine glasses out and the candles lit.”   
  
         “Aren’t we the romantic pair,” John joked, as he moved through the hallway.  Paul took the flowers out of his hand, so John could remove his coat, and then he was stuck holding the flowers.  Red roses.   
  
         “Red roses, John? A bit over the top, no?”  
  
         “Two dozen.  They cost a fuckin’ fortune at this time of year.” John’s back was to Paul as he thrust his coat over the newel post at the foot of the stairs.  “The least you could do is smell ‘em and act pleased.”  
  
         Paul _was_ smelling them, even as John had made the joke, because that is what Paul _did_ with flowers.  Always.  And John knew it, too, which is why he made the joke.  When he turned around and saw Paul’s nose in the bouquet, they both laughed again.   
  
         “I’ll find a vase,” Paul chuckled.  “Go pour yourself some wine, and I’ll meet you in the sitting room.”   
  
         Paul found a crystal vase on a sideboard, and soon had the roses arranged just so, and he brought them with him back to the sitting room, where John had made himself comfortable in a sofa facing the fireplace.  He fussed over placing the vase until John said,  
  
         “For Christ’s sake, Paul, get over here, and sit down! You’re like a fuckin’ hummingbird!”   
  
         Obediently, Paul sat down on the sofa next to John, but he was looking at the fire.  He was suddenly shy and nervous again.  
  
         John eyed Paul’s birdlike wariness with amused affection.  What a character this guy was!  He was either as bold as brass, or as flighty as a bird.  
  
         “Paul,” he said, “ _look_ at me.”   
  
         Slowly, reluctantly, Paul raised his eyes to John’s face.  John spoke again.  “You know what I’m gonna say …” John’s eyes were warm and gentle.  
  
         “’It’s only me?’” Paul suggested, with a smile.  It was a private joke.   
  
         John reached out and put his arm around Paul’s shoulders.  “Tell me what’s going on with you, babe.  It’s eating me up inside,” John said, as his other hand brushed the bangs out of Paul’s eyes.  
  
         Paul wanted to unburden himself, but he found he didn’t know what to say.  He had a lot of heavy feelings inside, but they didn’t have names and he couldn’t put words to them.  The helpless expression that passed over his face nearly broke John’s heart.  He pulled Paul toward him, and gave him a fierce embrace.  It wasn’t sexual; it was strong, and comforting.   
  
         “Love is stronger than hate, Paul, that has been our belief from the beginning,” John whispered in Paul’s ear.  “It may seem bad or confusing now, but it will all be clear soon.  Love has to prevail.”   
  
         Paul’s eyes betrayed him.  He didn’t want the tears to well up, but they did anyway.  He really didn’t want John to see him so weak.   He went mute.  
  
         John felt more confident as Paul felt less so.  It dawned on John that Paul was lost, and needed someone and something to hold on to.  John was determined to be that someone and something.  Paul had always been there for him, and now it was time for John to return the favor.  He pulled Paul closer to him, and nudged his lips close to Paul’s ear.  Soft whispering sounds seemed to calm Paul down, and he let his head loll over until it was resting on John’s shoulder.   
  
         “We can’t let them get between us,” John was whispering.   
“We’ve been through too much together to let that happen.”  
  
         Paul finally spoke.  “The press conference wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”  
  
         “No, the press clearly doesn’t believe the rumors, and I think we made short shrift of it.”  
  
         “You were fantastic, John.  I thought I was going to die when you made that joke about a honeymoon, but it was the perfect way to deflect that question.”  
  
         John chuckled.  “I was reading letters to the editor of Melody Maker this morning, and the fans are all up in arms.  They’re outraged at the very suggestion that we could be lovers. They’re all busy defending our honor!”  
  
         “Oh, dear,” was all Paul could say, before giggling a little.  
  
         “The worst is already over, is what I’m saying, Pud,” John whispered. He allowed his hand to trace circles on Paul’s arm.  “The paps will hang around outside for a while, and then they’ll lose interest and move on.”  
  
         Paul felt himself being lulled into a deep sense of security.  It was different from the way Linda made him feel.  It was like the difference between being held by his father as opposed to his mother when he was a little boy with a scraped knee.  John’s comfort was of a brisker, sturdier kind than Linda’s, fortified with a little humor and a lot of bravado.   But the result was the same.  Paul felt becalmed.  He allowed himself to snuggle further into John’s chest, and closed his eyes.  At some point soon he knew he would want to have sex with John again.  But right now all he wanted was to be held tightly in John’s arms.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul "come together", and John comes clean with his therapist.

         It was midnight when John suddenly awoke.  He was sitting on the sofa and Paul was in his arms.  The room had grown chilly, and John noticed that the fire had gone out.  
John started to extricate himself from Paul’s arms in order to get up and help Paul into one of Ringo’s guest bedrooms.  As he roused Paul he also felt every erogenous zone in his body activate.  Paul was incredibly sexy when he was half asleep.  Of course, Paul was incredibly sexy all the time (at least to John he was), but _especially_ when he was half asleep.  
  
         “Hey baby,” John whispered in Paul’s ear.  “Let me take you to bed.”  
  
         Paul was blinking his eyes and appeared to be orienting himself.  “What time is it?” he finally asked, in a thick early morning voice.  
  
         “Time to go to bed,” John said, pulling Paul up by an arm.  
  
         “Can’t stay here…” Paul said, his defensive walls flying up again as he briefly remembered paparazzi and tabloids.  
  
         “Come on, babe, you can’t go anywhere when you’re half asleep, except to bed,” John responded, leading Paul out of the sitting room, a protective arm around his waist.  Although Paul appeared to be objecting – the noises emitted from his throat seemed vaguely in disagreement with the movement towards the bedroom – he went along willingly enough.  
  
         John picked the first empty bedroom he found, and immediately started removing Paul’s clothing, starting with his shirt.  Seated on the edge of the bed, Paul noticed John’s intent, and his hands made faint attempts to stop John’s from undoing the buttons, but John just gently pushed them away and kept unbuttoning.  Next, he pulled the white undershirt off over Paul’s head, causing static electricity to snap and pop in Paul’s hair.  John pushed him back on to the mattress, and then began to undo Paul’s trousers.  Paul had closed his eyes and appeared almost to be asleep again, and had stopped resisting John’s efforts.  This really didn’t help much, because Paul had become a dead weight, but finally John was able to wrestle his slacks off, and then the socks.  All that was left was a pair of men’s black bikini briefs.  John thought about removing them, but then thought again.  They looked damn sexy on, and if Paul ever woke up from this death-like sleep, John could think of some fun he could have with those underpants.  
  
         Pulling Paul up by his arm again, John said, “Come on, Pud, I need you to get up and under the covers.  
  
         Paul finally responded with an almost childlike expression on his face.   “Are you coming too?”  
  
         “Of course I am!” John said with enthusiasm.  
  
         Paul followed directions and as soon as John pulled the covers up over him, Paul gave him an angelic smile tinged with a devilish twinkle.  “Good,” he said succinctly.  
  
         John growled in the bottom of his throat, and quickly tore his own clothes off.  Paul had that spark in his eye, and John was going to take advantage of it before the blasted man fell asleep again!  
  
         A moment later, and John was hopping in on the other side of the bed, and soon he was pulling Paul into his arms, and wrapping his legs around Paul’s.  
  
         “Oh!  Your feet are cold!” Paul declared, suddenly wide awake.  
  
         “Well, so are yours,” John said reasonably, rubbing his cold feet up and down Paul’s shins while Paul was squawking about it, and then he hefted himself up on top of Paul.  Immediately, he allowed his hands to roam wildly all over Paul’s torso.  It had been over a week!  But it hadn’t been the mere length of time that had intensified John’s physical longing for Paul – after all, they were regularly parted for 2 and 3 weeks at a time when Paul went to Sussex.  No, it was the emotional distance that had crept in to separate them in the past week that was driving John’s desire.  In short, John didn’t know which part of Paul to make love to first.  
  
         John’s head swooped down and his lips forced Paul’s apart, and a thrusting tongue burst into Paul’s mouth almost without warning.  John heard a “ _humph_ ” sound from the base of Paul’s throat, and he felt Paul’s arms reaching up his back and arms squeezing his shoulders as John continued to move his active tongue all over and in Paul’s mouth and throat.  A thrill went down John’s spine as he felt Paul melt under and around him.  It felt like an utter surrender.  This gave John a jolt of confidence, and he felt the dominance inside of him take over.  He felt this primal urge to completely surround and devour his lover.  
  
         Paul, for his part, had given himself up to John.  It was such a luxury not to have to think, or plan, or perform.  All he had to do was let his mind and his body go, and allow himself to be swallowed whole.  He wasn’t afraid of it for some reason, and that was new for him.  What was the worst that could happen?  If he didn’t give himself up to John, he could lose John.  If he did give himself up to John, he could lose John.  Same result.  So he might as well surrender 100%.   He allowed himself to feel all the tingles and alerts that his body was sending to his brain.   For the first time in a long time, he just gave in.  The feeling of release rushed through him, from his brain down to his toes.  
  
         John could feel Paul’s release of tension, and it energized him sexually.  John had always expressed his deepest emotions through sex.  He had always been an enthusiastic and generous lover, no matter what kind of attitude came out of his mouth when not in the throes of sexual passion.  Expressing himself in this way meant it could be almost entirely a subconscious act, and he didn’t have to intellectually address his deepest feelings.  So when Paul’s body gave itself up, John’s physical generosity had free reign.  
  
         Paul was gazing at him through half open lids, John noticed.  And while there was a glazed quality to his eyes, there was a vulnerable openness there, too.  John’s eyes smiled as he gently massaged Paul’s temples with his thumbs.  They were “eyeball to eyeball”, but not writing songs.  John’s lip quirked with the thought.  John instinctively knew he had to go slowly, and let Paul’s hidden longings leach out in their own time and at their own pace.  He would be there to welcome each and every one of them.  Meanwhile, John decided to fall into Paul’s eyes.  They were such an unworldly beautiful color, emerald green, chocolate brown, glittering gold, velvety black – every second a different color, and sometimes all different colors at the same time:  the boy with kaleidoscope eyes.  
  
         He moved one of his hands gently down to hold Paul’s chin, and his forehead leant down to meet Paul’s forehead.  Their lips touched.  It was a light touch, a soft kiss.  Paul’s eyes had closed involuntarily, and then lazily, gradually reopened and John studied it all, as if Paul’s face and all of its expressions were an intriguing artwork.  He wanted to say the words his heart felt, but was afraid that concrete thoughts would spoil the atmosphere, so he remained silent.  
  
         He allowed his right arm to move down to cradle Paul’s side.  His other hand moved up to Paul’s forehead, and it smoothed the hair back.  John’s thumb then began making soft circles on Paul’s cheek.  He felt Paul’s arms, encircling him and drawing him nearer.  Paul was wanting more.  John had been waiting for this sign.  
  
         There were no more coherent thoughts to run through John’s mind.  There were just physical movements, and the memory of each one was indelible.  John had Paul’s thighs enclosed by his own thighs and legs, like in a clamp, and John’s legs were rubbing against Paul’s legs.  John was kissing Paul with intense passion, and Paul had closed his eyes, and washed his mind of extraneous thoughts – or any thoughts at all.  All he had was the sensation of being kissed by John, and his senses understanding how exquisite that sensation was.  John’s arms had snaked their way around Paul, so he held him in a full embrace, and Paul’s arms had encircled John’s upper body, but his hands were loose.  John was in charge, and Paul was enjoying it.  
  
         Slowly John began a gentle rhythmic movement, pelvis against pelvis, all the while staring into Paul’s lazy eyes.  The gentle friction was exhilarating, and both men felt their heart rates start.  Paul’s breathing was starting to hitch, and this excited John.  John’s rubbing became stronger, faster, and soon he could feel his penis fully engorged.  His hand moved down and slipped in under Paul’s black underpants, and jerked them down, down, to below his crotch.  The hand then moved back up to grab Paul’s cock, and he was pleased to feel that it was rock hard too.  John chuckled deep in his throat, and yet again watched Paul’s face while he continued to thrust and grind.  Paul’s eyes had closed, but the eyelids fluttered up, leaving a small glimpse of the whites of Paul’s eyes.  
  
         Their breathing was now fast and shallow.  It was now or never.  If he didn’t stop now, they’d both come all over each other, and John wanted this to last longer.  He let go of Paul’s cock, and let that hand wander between Paul’s legs.  He pulled the underpants down further.  He had to prop himself up a bit to do this, and Paul’s arms dropped down to his side.  Paul was watching him steadily now, and John leaned over to get the lube that was sitting on the bedside table, he applied the jelly to his cock while watching Paul’s face throughout.  The look he was giving Paul was of the ‘ _you’re mine and I’m gonna take you’_ variety, and the expression he got back from Paul was of the ‘ _I want it, but I’m not going to ask for it; just do whatever you want’_ variety.  John chuckled deeply in his throat at Paul’s expression, and could see that Paul was a little embarrassed that his thoughts had been so easily read.  John was sure that Paul was even blushing a little, but he couldn’t tell for sure what with the subdued lighting.  John chuckled again, and with one flexible leg he lifted his foot up, and dragged Paul’s underpants all the way down and then kicked them away.  
  
         When John’s fingers began probing Paul’s anus, Paul jumped slightly with surprise at the first touch.  John settled him with a few kisses and then proceeded to breach that barrier with two fingers.  Paul sucked in his breath at the entry, and John shushed him gently.  Moments later, John’s fingers were out, and he grabbed Paul’s hand, bringing the hand to the base of John’s penis, urging Paul to hold on to it while John simultaneously covered it with lube.  John guided his cock – Paul’s hand and all – towards the now ready and pulsing opening.  
  
         It had been a while since John had entered Paul.  Paul’s winces and groans had to do with physical – not emotional – discomfort, and John was soothing and clucking down into Paul’s face while he maneuvered himself little by little deeper into Paul’s body.  Each time Paul stiffened a little, John would stop, and rub Paul’s lower belly until he relaxed.  As soon as John felt the relaxation, he’d shove his cock in a little deeper, causing Paul to yelp a bit in pain.  
  
         Throughout, Paul’s legs were – of course - up in the air, and it wasn’t long before he felt he had to hold his legs up (he was almost 46 after all), and so he used his arms to brace his legs.  He closed his eyes tightly and resolved to just let John do his worst.  His raw voice rasped, “Just do it,” and John took this as permission to plunge all the way in as far as his stalk would go.  “Oh!” Paul cried.  
  
         John was beyond caring now.  Instinct took over completely, and he began to rut.  It was deep, hard, dirty rutting, of the kind that made every nerve in his body tingle with finally sated anticipation.  He plunged, rubbed, thrust, and then plunged again.  As his excitement increased he started speaking in a guttural tone.  They were dirty little verbal ejaculations to match the soon-to-be seminal one.  “God, you’re so tight!  You’re the best fuckin’ bitch!  You’re mine!  _Mine_!”  
  
         Paul’s eyeballs were up in his head somewhere, and his mouth hung open while he gasped for air.  He felt the rubbing, throbbing, thumping and smacking.  He heard the slapping sound of their bodies connecting as the friction increased as well as John’s dirty words and heavy breathing.  He saw – through half-closed eyes - he saw John in the form of various body parts flailing and heaving and John’s hair flying around him against the halo of subdued lighting.  He smelled the musky order of John’s genital sweat, and he could smell his own body odor as well, overpowering memories of nasty nights in compromising positions danced through his mind as his body came closer and closer to a climax.  And he tasted – he tasted his own sweat, and John’s sweat, and the salty taste of John’s skin.   John was coming now, Paul could tell.  John’s lower body got rigid and the thrusting became almost like a metronome, and unearthly sounds were emitted from John’s throat, apparently without him having any awareness of it.  Seeing and feeling John that excited was intoxicating to Paul.  He wanted to watch John come for him - because of him - and he moved his pelvis around provocatively, lifting it up and down and around, forcing John to chase the moving target in order to maintain a rhythm.  
  
         Finally John was making that sound he made when he came – it wasn’t a shout, it wasn’t a cry, it was something else entirely – more like a howl, and the thrusting came so fast that it actually sped to a sudden stop, and then Paul felt the warm and gooey wetness running between his legs down to the mattress.  John was heaving in the aftermath, and with relief Paul let his legs down, and wrapped them around John’s lower body.  His arms came up and enveloped John’s upper body, while John lay out on Paul’s chest, breathing heavily and catching his breath.  
  
         Paul had not come yet.  His dick was still rock hard.  It had been a tremendous turn on to watch John come, and he wanted to be conscious of the whole experience.  If he’d given in to his own orgasm, he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on John’s.  Finally, John looked up.  There was a cockeyed and loving smile on his face.  
  
         “You need my help,” he said softly.  Paul’s eyebrow went up, as if in response, and John grinned.  His hand found Paul’s cock, and slowly, gently, he began to pump.  The pumping gradually gained in speed until Paul was whimpering with need.  “ _You want it?  You want it now_?” John whispered in Paul’s ear while he continued to pump.  All Paul could do was mutely nod his head, and soon John was pumping harder and faster until Paul, too, had his orgasmic moment, when sound, light and touch all combined and exploded.  The cum went everywhere, and John was laughing at himself for not predicting that. He moved to find something to clean it up, but Paul grabbed him, and pulled him back down into his arms.  
  
         “Later,” he whispered in John’s ear.  
  
         And John was only too happy to oblige.  
  
         So they lay there, quietly, in each other’s arms: Paul on the bottom, and John on the top, but equally strong in their holds on each other.  John’s head was nestled in the crook of Paul’s neck, and his eyes had begun to tear up with relief as he lay there.  He had been so afraid that he had lost Paul to the bigotry that they had both been raised with.  It wasn’t as if he didn’t understand self-hatred.  He’d spent most of his life feeling it, really.  Did he ever _not_ feel hatred for himself?  But his Paul had always been the self-confident one, the secure one, and it had frightened and baffled him to see Paul floundering in self-hate.  What could he say to make it better?  Was there _anything_ he could say?  Maybe the best he could do is show Paul his love, and maybe his love would act as a torch to light Paul’s way.  Paul had to leave those old taboos behind him eventually.  
  
         For his part, Paul lay in quiet reflection.  There was no question about his love for John.  That was a given, had always been a given, and John would always have a reserved seat in his heart.  He lay there wishing he had seen and understood this at the tender age of 26, when he was asked to make a choice.  Here he was – 20 years later (almost exactly) – and he knew with a dead certainty if he were given the same ultimatum he had turned down in 1968 today, he would give a different answer, even if it meant never having a family.  But he had made the choices he made, and so had John, and those choices had led them here.  And here they were, in a serious pickle.  They’d been in serious pickles before, of course, and had gotten themselves out of them.  But how does one get ‘out’ of something like this?  Paul had no answers, except that he had to (1) stay strong and be there for his wife and children, (2) stay strong and be there for John, and (3) stay strong and devote himself to his music, and (4) stay absolutely silent with the public about his relationship with John.  He had found it was extremely difficult to do (1) and (2) at the same time, and it was now equally difficult to do (1) and (3) at the same time.  But it felt nearly impossible to do (2) and (4) at the same time.  To deny John publicly, to hold him at arm’s length, was to hurt him.  But if he did not do that, he would hurt Linda and his children and both of their careers.  What a fucking mess.  
  
         John moved slowly, and gently unstuck himself from Paul’s nether regions.  Both men _ouched_ and chuckled as their lower navel skin – glued together by dried cum - pulled away from each other’s.  John plopped down on his back next to Paul, but shimmied up close to his side, looking upward, and leaning his head on Paul’s shoulder.  When he spoke, it was as if he was talking to the ceiling.  “I need you, Paul.  I need you with me physically as well as emotionally.”  
  
         Paul heard the words, and then whispered, “I know.”  
  
         “So what are we going to do?”  
  
         Paul sighed, and moved a bit so his arm could encircle John’s shoulder, and he gathered him in while John turned on his side and cuddled up to Paul.  “Well,” Paul said firmly, “we’re going to get more clever about our living arrangements, is what.”  
  


*****

  
         Fiona had actually missed seeing John for the last four weeks.  He had been out of the country on vacation.   This would be John’s first session since the release of his album, not to mention the flurry of rumors that had circulated around him and his writing partner.  Those rumors appeared to be dying down now in the wake of the recent press conference, and the therapist imagined that must be the cause of great relief to John.  He hadn’t the strongest of egos.  (His ego was _enormous_ , but it wasn’t strong.)  She wondered if he was going to address matters related to this musical comeback and the resultant gossip, or revert back to discussing the usual hobbyhorse questions of his insecurities and tendency to bite first and ask questions later.  
  
         She didn’t have long to wait.  John buzzed from the outer room precisely at 4:00 p.m.  She smiled to herself, and couldn’t help feeling a little bit of pride – okay, it was _hubris_ – about a John Lennon who showed up to every session _on time_.  Then she laughed at herself, because it had only taken _18 months_ for John to get to this point _._ Better late than never.  
  
         John seemed to be in a chipper mood as he strolled in and dropped dramatically into his favorite chair.  His right ankle was resting insouciantly on his left knee, and his long, fine-articulated fingers thrust themselves through his hair.  
  
         “It’s good to see you again, John,” Fiona said in a cool tone.  
  
         “Back at ya,” John said smartly.  
        
         “So, when we left off last time we were talking of your concerns about the release of your album,” Fiona said.  
  
         “Man, that seems like it was another lifetime to me,” John said reflectively, “but it was only a month ago.”  
  
         “I’ve read all the reviews.  The album is a success,” Fiona said.  
  
         John’s eyes met hers and he twinkled at her.  “ _And…_?” he asked, a grin threatening.  
  
         “ _And_ , how do you feel about it?”  
  
         “Relieved.  Tremendously relieved.  It’s been a long time since I had reviews like these.  A _lllooonnnng_ time.  I knew we had it in us, but it was really scary.”  
  
         “It must be very rewarding, too.”  
  
         John thought about that for a moment.  He hadn’t really stopped to think about the album’s success beyond the fact that the reviews and sales were good because he had been so focused on the rumors about Paul and him.  “You know, I haven’t given that part of it much thought, yet.  I just got back from vacation.”  
  
         “And how was your trip?”  Fiona asked.  
  
         “Interesting,” John said.  
  
         “Interesting how?”  
  
         “There was major drama,” John said with a goofy smile.  
  
         “I read in the newspaper that you went on vacation with Paul and his family.”  
  
         “Well, that’s just _great_.   My therapist is taking notes from the press.  My life in a nutshell.”  
  
         Fiona laughed.  “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have said that.”  
  
         “No,” John said with an elaborate fake sigh, “don’t worry about it.  It’s okay.  No problem.  It’s only me.  I’ll be fine. I’m used to it.  It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last time, I’m sure…”  
  
         Fiona was still laughing.  “You made your point.”  
  
         “Finally, she admits it!” John had thrown his arms up in the air to make his point yet again.  
  
         “So what was the ‘major drama’?”  Fiona asked.  
  
         John settled back in his chair and thought about how he would broach the subject.   “While you were spying on me through the newspaper, you must have noticed the rumors about me and Paul.”  
  
         Fiona smiled gently, and looked down at her pad.  “Was _that_ the drama?”  
  
         “Was it ever.”  
  
         “You seem to be pretty relaxed about the whole thing.  I take it you didn’t create the drama thi…” Fiona cut herself off abruptly.  
  
         “Whoa!  You were about to say ‘ _this time_ ’ weren’t you!”  John was pointing at her.  “You so _were_!”  
  
         Fiona had to laugh out loud.  She couldn’t help getting silly when John was in this mood.  It meant she was a lousy therapist, she knew, but this man was so charismatic and clever that he was a joy to be with at times like these.  She forced herself to get serious.  _Mind over matter_.  If she couldn’t keep herself together, she would have to refer him to a different therapist.  Not good to get too emotionally involved _._  
  
         “As I _should_ have said,” she started again, “did the rumors upset you?”  
  
         “Strangely, not as much as you might think.  Clearly, no one believes it except a few fringe types.  But when you’re in the middle of it – when it is going on – your brain turns to shit.  You can’t think straight, and it all seems much worse than it actually turns out to be.  Paul was really thrown for a loop about it.”  
  
         “Oh?  How so?”  
  
         “Well, there he was with his wife and children, and these rumors were going on.  It shook him up quite a bit.”  
  
         “I can understand that.”  
  
         “He came unglued.”  John’s voice had dropped to a low tone, and his energy level dropped too.  
  
         Fiona remained quiet.  This was a major first.  John had never spoken to her about Paul on a personal level.  Previous comments about Paul had always been in connection with the issues related to their creative differences or the stresses of their mutual fame, but never their personal relationship.  
  
         “He had to sit his daughters down and warn them about the rumors.”  
  
         “That must have been hard for him.”  
  
         “ _Ummmm_ …” John agreed absent-mindedly.  He had vanished into himself.  Fiona waited patiently, and had begun to wonder what she could say to pry loose the next comment, when John spoke again.  
  
         “After we got back from Montserrat, this past weekend, I was at home alone, and freaking out a bit.  I actually thought about calling you, for an emergency session.”  
  
         “Oh?” Fiona asked, keeping all curiosity out of her voice, and carefully avoiding any sign of excess interest in her face and body language.  “Why did you not?”  
  
         John sighed a genuine sigh this time.  “I couldn’t talk about it then.  Everything was still up in the air, and I didn’t know how it would play out.”  
  
         “And now you do?”  
  
         “Sort of.”  John paused for a long moment.  “I was going to tell you the truth, but I decided I wasn’t ready yet.”  
  
         Fiona’s brain froze for a brief second at that admission.  She stilled her hand and stopped writing on her pad.  She remained quiet and unmoving, and waited.  John remained silent, and so Fiona asked softly, “Are you ready now?”  
  
         John met her eyes, and she saw that he was weighing the pros and cons, and so whatever he had to say was clearly of enormous personal importance to him.  He finally made a decision.  
  
         “I think so.  I’ll start, but if I find I can’t finish, I’ll just stop.”  John was warning her that he wanted to go at his own pace, and that she wasn’t to push him on this.  Fiona understood, and the slow blink of her eyes convinced John that she would conduct herself accordingly.  “I can count the people on three – maybe four - hands that know this,” John said solemnly, still watching Fiona’s eyes.  
  
         As the silence lengthened, Fiona allowed discreet warmth to show through her eyes.  This small adjustment to her demeanor seemed to be the key to unlock John’s secret.  
  
         “It’s true,” he whispered.  
  
         Fiona was confused.  Had she missed something?  Her face must have looked like a question mark, because John added,  
  
         “About Paul and me.  It’s true.”  
  
         _Ohhhhhhh_ , Fiona thought.  _How stupid of her not to see this coming_!  She managed to school her face to remain professional, and murmured, “I see.”  And she _did_ see.  
  
         “Is he the lover you told me about some months ago – the one you thought you would lose because of your infidelity?”  
  
         John was taken aback by that.  He had forgotten he had discussed the Nigel problem, however obliquely, with Fiona.  
“I didn’t cheat. I got blasted drunk when I was jealous and angry and some lounge lizard gave me a blow job.  It’s a long story.”  
  
         “But Paul was the ‘she’ we talked about?” Fiona asked gently.  
        
         John got defensive. “ _I_ never said ‘she’.  _You_ said ‘she’ and I didn’t correct you.”  
  
         “This doesn’t bother me, John,” Fiona said, in an effort to calm him down.  “You managed to tell me your problem in a way that was comfortable for you, and we were able to come up with a strategy, remember?”  
  
         John nodded, and his ever-ready temper relaxed.  
  
         “You were talking about how the rumors affected Paul,” Fiona prompted, pulling John out of what appeared to be a minor funk.  
  
         John nodded and then sat up to begin again.  “So of course, the rumors – well, it was hell for Paul, because he basically had to tell his daughters about me.  While we were all stuck together on a fucking island.  Sounds like a bad movie, doesn’t it?”  
  
         Fiona sat in solid sympathy but only nodded that she understood how difficult this must have been.  “And his wife?” she asked gently.  
  
         “Well, Linda knows all about it, so it wasn’t news to her.”  
  
         “Oh, really?” Fiona hadn’t meant to say that.  It kind of slipped out.  She recovered quickly.  “How long has she known?”  
  
         “Since the beginning,” John said.  
  
         “And when was the beginning?”  
  
         John thought about it.  “Over seven years now.”  
  
         Fiona was quietly astonished.  The whole time John had been coming to her, he and Paul… She shut up the voice in her head, and refocused on John.  John was her patient, and nothing else mattered right now.  
  
         “This must have been very hard for you, John, to watch Paul go through this, and then to have to face his daughters afterwards.”  
  
         John considered what she said.  “It wasn’t that hard for _me_ ,” he finally admitted.  “His daughters are too well raised to make a scene.  They all treated me as if nothing untoward had happened.  And since then, one of his daughters at least has made it clear to me she doesn’t hold it against me.”  John thought of sweet, gentle Mary and a shadow of a smile swept across his face.  
  
         “Why did you think of asking for an emergency session, then?”  
  
         “Paul.”  
  
         “What about Paul?”  
  
         “It felt like he was pulling away from me because of it.”  
  
         _Ohhhhhh,_ Fiona thought.  _Again – why didn’t she see this coming?_ “What gave you that impression?” she asked carefully.  
  
         “The fact that he _pulled away from me_ ,” John said in a snarky drawl.  Then he stopped himself.  “I’m sorry.  I’m touchy about it.”  
  
         Fiona made the classic shoulder-shrugging ‘no problem’ gesture in response.  
  
         “He went straight down to Sussex – where his family lives – when we got back from Montserrat, and he didn’t call me all weekend.  I was alone.”  
  
         Fiona saw that this would be a very stressful thing for John – unresolved issues with a loved one, plus a forced separation, added to being alone.  Not good for a guy like John.  But he hadn’t pushed the emergency button, and he had made it through the weekend intact.  That was saying something for his emotional growth.  “You seem very together about it now.  You managed through this very well, it seems, on your own.”  
  
         John nodded absently and then said, “I couldn’t have done this even a year ago.  I would have had a complete meltdown.  But I actually managed to use those strategies we’ve discussed.  I literally talked to myself to calm myself down, and I made myself get up and do something active when I started to get too maudlin.”  John looked truly pleased with himself as he made this report.  
  
         Fiona smiled encouragingly.  “Have you sorted out this problem with Paul?”  
  
         “For the moment, yes.”  
  
         “That’s an interesting choice of words:  ‘For the moment’.”  
  
         “This is a very complicated situation.  We’re basically living a lie from the public’s point of view.  We’ve been living a lie for years, but _before_ no one was watching us.  Now they are.  Paparazzi everywhere, people following us with cameras and tape recorders, interrogating our friends.  It’s creepy.  We managed to lose them all and meet at a friend’s house last night, and were able to more or less clear the air, but tomorrow we could be caught out.  There’s an endless array of pitfalls in front of us.  It’s like being under siege in a way, and our nerves are frayed to the breaking point with just the album release itself, never mind all this gossip.”  
  
         “It sounds awful; almost unbearable.”  
  
         “It is,” John said with passion, leaning forward.  “We didn’t lie to the press, you know.  We never answered their direct questions at all; instead, we misdirected them.  But people will _say_ we lied if they find out later, because we didn’t tell the truth, either.”  
  
         “Was this something you had given any thought to before the album came out?  That it might lead to this kind of exposure?”  
  
         John was stumped by that.  He was staring at Fiona with a look of surprise on his face.  “No, it wasn’t,” he said, “but as I sit here today I don’t know why not!  It seems so _obvious_ to me now that _of course_ we would come under intense scrutiny once we started working together.  It wouldn’t have been a problem if we weren’t lov… weren’t _together_ , but since we are, it’s a major dilemma.”  
  
         Fiona had noticed that John had hedged his words.  He wasn’t quite ready to discuss the relationship at the micro level.  Macro level would have to do.  
  
         “Well, Paul lives with his family in Sussex, and you live here in London.  How did you two meet _before_ the album came out?”  
  
         “Meet?  We saw each other every day in the studio, and we lived together in our townhouse.  Well, ostensibly it’s _my_ townhouse, but it is really ours.  He spent half his time with me, and half with Linda.  But we told our friends that it was only because we were working on the album together.”  
  
         “And they believed it?”  
  
         “I certainly thought they did.  But rumors were cropping up amongst some of our so-called ‘friends’ in the London music scene.  They were gossiping about it in my hearing when I went to the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame last January.  I put it down to idle loose talk, then.  You know – poking around to see what might come out.  I swear rock stars are the biggest gossips on the planet.  You can’t believe a word they say!”  
  
         John’s face was dead serious as he said this, and Fiona had to stifle an actual guffaw.  Such a rarified world he lived in.  
  
         “So, what are you two planning to do about it?”  
  
         John smiled briefly as he remembered the night before, lying in Paul’s arms in the aftermath of loving sex, and Paul’s firm voice laying down the law.  
  
         “We’re going to get more clever about our living arrangements, that’s what.”


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul butt heads over a video, and John takes the living situation into his own hands...

         A few days after the press conference, Paul was waiting in the large conference room at 1 Soho Square.  In front of him were reams of paper in several neat piles.  The documents before him included those that would legally transfer certain assets and liabilities from MPL, Pauls’ production company, to McLen Partners Limited.  He and John were officially moving their new partnership interests in to this new limited company.  The documents had to be signed and notarized, and Paul was waiting for John to arrive.  
  
         It was hard living apart from John, and this self-acknowledgment had surprised Paul, who hadn’t realized how comfortable he’d become in the living situation at the Maida Vale townhouse until he had to step away from it.  It had been years since Paul had slept alone, and he didn’t like it one bit.  He had tried to talk Linda into moving to Cavendish for a few weeks until the last paparazzi finally gave up, but she refused to leave Sussex while James was in school.  The paparazzi were still following Paul around, but they had reduced substantially in number ever since the press conference.  He and John had resorted to seeing each other in Ringo’s flat a few times, but Paul didn’t feel comfortable staying all night, so he would always return to Cavendish in the early morning hours.  It was getting to be a major pain in the backside.  In fact, Paul actually had fleeting moments where he wished that their relationship had been exposed so he wouldn’t have to live this ridiculous existence.  Pushed to its extreme like this, Paul could see only how ludicrous it was that grown consenting adults had to sneak around in the dead of night.  
  
         _Where was John anyway_?  Yeah, John hated business and paperwork, and anything that smacked of it, but in addition to the partnership documents in front of him, Paul was also reviewing contracts having to do with the concert tour which they both had to agree to and sign, and there were also a lot of decisions they had to make, such as what to do about “the” music video.  
  
          Paul had never thought the _She’s A Friend of Dorothy_ video was a good idea.  Well, no, it was more accurate to say that he realized it was an _objectively_ ‘good’ idea in that it was funny, visually rich, and entertaining.  But Paul had worried about the subtext all along.  They had filmed it after the _RS_ interview with Jann Wenner, but before the interview had been published, so the backlash from that interview had been only a faint anxiety for Paul at the time of filming.  None of them had expected the firestorm of gossip that had developed out of the album release and interview, and although the mainstream media had moved on, convinced that the rumors were most likely not true or at least un-provable, the tabloid types were still simmering.  As a result, Paul and their manager had discussed deep-sixing the _‘Dorothy’_ video, for fear of starting the craziness up again.  John Eastman had weighed in too, privately urging Paul not to release it in the U.S., because a similar video featuring Mick Jagger and David Bowie, released in 1985, had led to loud and persistent rumors about their sexual relationship.  Of course, Jagger and Bowie had been deliberately courting the controversy, so they had done nothing to quell the rumors.  But Eastman knew that Paul, at least, was not willing to expose himself in that way.  
  
         Paul dreaded discussing this issue with John because he suspected that John would turn it into a referendum on Paul’s level of commitment to their partnership and relationship.  Also, the video had been John’s baby; he had worked on it with the director to the point where he really was a co-director.  John would not be happy about shelving it.  
  
         Finally, Paul heard noises that indicated that John had arrived.  John was shouting greetings to people as he approached the conference room.  
  


*****

  
  
        John had dragged himself out of bed that morning, and then had lazed around the house putting off the time when he would have to put on big boy clothes and go in to the office and deal with business.  He hated that stuff with a passion, and didn’t understand why Paul wouldn’t just use the power of attorney John had given him so that he wouldn’t have to face business conference rooms ever again.  Paul had said something about “personal service contracts” having to be signed by the actual person who was providing the personal services, but it all sounded like mumbo jumbo to John.  
  
         The whole living apart thing was a major drag, although John was more sanguine about it now that he was getting regular Paul fixes.  He had taken to chatting amiably with the few paparazzi that continued to hang out outside the Maida Vale townhouse, in the hope that they would eventually realize there was nothing to see there, and go away.  He wanted his life back to “normal”, and that meant he wanted Paul back at Maida Vale.    
  
         He had finally bestirred himself, and allowed himself to be delivered by his driver to the business offices, and, taking his time (not even realizing that he was almost an hour late), he sauntered into the conference room to face the dreaded paperwork.  Paul was sitting there giving him a dark look.  _Now what have I done_?  John thought to himself.  _Lord, the man was such a moody bastard_.  
  
         “Glad you could _finally_ join us, Johnny,” Paul said with a snarky looking smile on his face.  
  
         “Well, _I’m_ not,” John growled back, and then displayed his own snarky smile.  “Am I late?”  
  
         “Almost an hour,” Paul said, looking pointedly at his watch.  Their manager and his assorted assistants looked uncomfortable.  
  
         “Well, if my _roommate_ , who shall remain _nameless_ , stopped acting like a silly git and moved back home, why _then_ I would have someone to make sure I got to meetings on time.”  John treated Paul and then the whole room to an _up yours_ smile.  
  
         The manager and the assistants all looked stricken.  _What did John just say_?  _Roommate?_ They all had a bad feeling about that.  Some of them snuck side-glances at Paul to see his reaction.  But Paul, as usual, looked completely neutral and unbothered.  
  
         “How very inconsiderate of your _roommate,_ John,” Paul said with a small smile.  “Can we focus on work now?”  
  
         John shrugged magnanimously, and leaned back in his chair – obviously preparing to be bored out of his mind.  
And it was boring.  Horribly boring.  John had to stop himself several times from the urge to lie down on the conference room floor and nap.  One set of incomprehensible legal documents followed the other in an endless trek across the table in front of him.  He finally perked up when they got to the concert tour contracts.  
  
         “So it’s really happening?” John said brightly, looking at the rough draft of the proposed plans.   “When are we looking at?”  
  
         The manager discussed a tour in a month’s time.  
  
         “Not enough time,” Paul said firmly.  “We have to get the musicians together, rehearse.  We’re not at all ready to do a tour.”  
  
         “Two months?”  The manager asked, in an almost pleading tone.  “It’s best to do this close in time to the album release.”  
  
         “But if we put on a _bad_ show we’ll blow any good will,” Paul pointed out logically.   “I’ll get the musicians together and we’ll meet to see how much work we’ve got ahead of us.  Then I can give you a better idea of when we’ll be ready.”  
  
         John hadn’t thought of all the work that went into a tour, because it had been literally decades since he had to worry about such stuff.  And back in the day, the Beatles had toured constantly, so they really didn’t need to do too much rehearsing or prep’ing for a tour.  This time, John realized, he had a whole lot of work to do before he would be ready to hit the stage.  Suddenly, his excitement about the concert tour started to fizzle out.  
  
         Paul and the manager continued to talk about the tour, and now that John had lost interest, he started doodling on a piece of paper in front of him _.  Just give me the fucking papers, let me sign ‘em, and I’ll be out of here like a shot_ , he was thinking to himself.  
  
         An hour or so later, the concert tour discussions had ended, and it was time to bring up the issue of the ‘ _Dorothy_ ’ video.  Paul and the manager exchanged nervous looks, and the manager realized he was going to have to carry the water on this one.  He didn’t want John and Paul to start arguing so he was going to be the ‘bad guy’.  
  
         He cleared his throat.  “There’s a difficult subject I have to raise with the two of you,” he said, “so I’m asking everyone else to leave the room.”  That got John’s attention.  He looked up from his doodles with curiosity, and watched all the assistants file out of the room, and the door close behind them.  John’s eyes moved back to the manager’s.  The manager continued.  “It’s about this video of yours,” he said slowly.  
  
         “’ _Dorothy_?’” John asked cheerfully.  Finally something _he_ wanted to talk about!  The video was scheduled to be released in a few days.  
  
         “Yes,” the manager replied.  “I don’t think we should release it right now.”  
  
         A dead silence followed this announcement.  Paul was staring at his hands and holding his breath.  He even closed his eyes, as though waiting for an explosion.  He had to force himself not to put his hands over his ears.  John sat in a stony silence, the pencil he’d been doodling with still in his hand, and his mouth open.  The manager was breathing fast – he was clearly very nervous about John’s reaction.  
  
         Finally, John reacted.  “ _Excuse me_?” he said in a voice vibrating with withheld emotion. He was glaring at the manager with all of the nasty arrogance he was infamous for.  “You’re our _artistic director_ now?”  
  
         The manager swallowed hard, and manned up.  “No, it is a great video, very funny, but…”  
  
         “But, _what_?”  John was leaning forward, his forehead heavy with anger, and his body language bullying.  
  
         “But the timing couldn’t be worse.  We are just climbing out of the gossip caused by the _Rolling Stone_ interview…”  
  
         “Oh, so _that’s_ it, is it?”  John’s voice was raised, and one of his hands was in a fist.  He turned to Paul, “Are _you_ behind this Paul?”  John was glaring at Paul.  “Are you afraid people will call you _queer_?”  
  
         The manager jumped in, desperate to forestall a bad fight between his two golden geese.  “No!  No, John!  This is me, not Paul, and John Eastman agrees….”  
  
         Paul winced when he heard the manager invoke Eastman’s name.  
  
         “ _Eastman_!  Oh, well!  If _Eastman_ says so, it _mus_ t be right!” John was shouting now.   “Paul!  You can’t just sit there twiddling your fuckin’ thumbs.  Speak up!”  
  
         Paul looked up. “I have been worrying about the message it sends,” he said softly, schooling his face to look unthreatening and reasonable.  
  
         “ _Message_?  What _message_?  It’s just a fuckin’ video!”  John was beside himself now.  “You already made me water down the damn thing to the point where it lost some of its punch!  Now you want to dump it altogether!”  
  
         The manager was lost now.  He didn’t know what John was talking about – ‘watering down’ – could it possibly be that the first version was _worse_?  “Maybe in a few months we can release it, when things have died down…” he started.  
  
         “Things are _never_ going to die down!  _Don’t you understand that_?  Once the fuckin’ genie is out of the bottle, he is out of the fuckin’ bottle!”   John hadn’t meant to let loose with this vitriol.  He had been storing it inside for weeks now.  The truth was that all of their pathetic attempts to hide the truth were doomed to failure, and he for one didn’t want to go through life tiptoeing around for fear of what other people might say.   
  
         John’s shouting had silenced both Paul and the manager.  They sat in a shocked silence staring at John for a few moments, until Paul found his voice.  
  
         “What do you _mean_ by that, John?” he asked in a low voice, a voice that sought to hide its anger.  
  
         “I _mean_ , _Paul_ ,” John responded with a nasty sneer on his face, “that you have to face up to reality.  Now that the gossip has started, it will never actually end!  You need to grow some bigger _balls_ , mate!”  
  
         The manager was appalled to be a witness to this attack.  He had no clue of how to stop it, however, and had to watch helplessly while it unfolded.  
  
         “It’s just a video, John, you act as though we’re asking you to amputate your _arm_ or something,” Paul spat out.  He was blindsided by John’s remarks.  He’d had no idea John felt their attempts to hide their relationship were ‘pathetic’ and for naught.  This filled Paul with anxiety.  Hadn’t John just reassured him a few days ago that ‘the worst was over’?  
  
         John was still angry.  Of course it wasn’t just the video.  It was just another step down the road of lies and denial, and while John was willing to go down the road for the sake of Paul and his family, he didn’t see why they had to become paranoid about what people might think to the point where they couldn’t express themselves freely.  John forced himself to calm down before he spoke again.  
  
         “The video provides what you asked for when we filmed it, Paul – it has plausible deniability.  That’s why we added Linda, remember?”  John had zeroed in on Paul, almost forgetting that the manager was still there.    “The whole reason we had to add her was to make it clear that we were just joking.”  
  
         Paul sighed deeply.  This was one fight he wasn’t going to win.  He knew it in that moment.  John _had_ turned this discussion into a referendum on his commitment to their relationship and partnership, and there was only one way Paul could vote on such a referendum.  “Well, let’s view it again,” Paul finally said in a conciliatory voice, “maybe it isn’t as suggestive as I remember.”  
  
         John sat back in relief, with a small smile on his face.  He had won this skirmish.   “ _Oh soldier of love, lay down your arms of love and surrender to me_ ,” he sang to Paul, “ _use your arms to hold me tight, baby I don’t want to fight no more_ …”  
  
         The manager was worried.  He thought the video was very suggestive, but he supposed there was no harm in viewing it again.  “I’ll go get it set up in the screening room,” he said softly, getting up and evacuating the room.  He was grateful to get out of the room; the tension in there was unbearably heavy.  
  
         As the door closed behind him, John turned back to Paul.  “I’m glad you’re seeing reason,” he said, feeling as though he was now in the catbird seat.  “You shouldn’t act guilty about stuff like this, or people will think it is true.”  
  
         “Well,” Paul said with a slight taint of sarcasm, “it is hard to know what _else_ people will think while we’re being chased all over the city streets by a transvestite.”  
  
         “It’s _funny_ , Paul.  We think he’s a she, and when we find out she’s a he, we take off running.  And he keeps popping up everywhere.  It’s camp, and it’s so obviously a joke.  People will probably think we’re making _fun_ of the gossip,” John turned on his most persuasive self, trying to get Paul to lighten up.  “And even if they miss it at first, when it gets to the end and Linda bashes the transvestite over the head with the rolling pin, they’ll certainly get it by then.”  
  
         Paul nodded in silent acquiescence, and the silence ticked on for a few minutes besides.  Paul finally said, “Do you _really_ think they’ll never stop hounding us?”  
  
         John saw Paul’s worried expression then, and cursed himself.  He always went overboard with his arguments when he was angry.  Surely, Paul knew this about him by now?  “Paul, I just lost my temper, is all.  I don’t know how things are going to turn out.  I don’t have a crystal ball.  I just don’t want to live my life afraid of what people might say, so I want to keep the part where we hide our lives from the world down to a minimum.  And we shouldn’t let it affect our work at all.  If that starts happening, I’m quitting.”  
  
         Paul managed a half-hearted smile.  “I hope you’re right, John, because the last few weeks have been hell for me.  The idea of starting it all up again…”  
  
         “I know, Pud, I know.  But really, you’re over-reacting to the video.  It’s funny.  It’s camp.  It’ll be okay.”  
  
         Paul stretched and then stopped in mid-stretch as a wicked idea gleamed in his eyes.  “You know, John,” he drawled, waiting for John to meet his eyes.  “You’ve never complained about the size of my balls _before_ …”  
  


*****

  
  
        The manager was shook up.  If he hadn’t known it before, he now knew for sure that the two men did have a sexual relationship.  John had been incredibly indiscreet.  This was a worry.  Would he act out like this every time he was challenged on an idea?  And who would be present to hear it if he did?   He gathered the assistants together in the screening room to speak to them.  
  
         “I’m instructing you all not to repeat whatever you heard in that room or overheard out here to anyone else.  Not even to anyone here in this building.  Not to your spouses or lovers.  No one.  If I hear anything about this floating around, I will track it down to the source and fire them.  Do you understand?”  All four of the assistants nodded seriously.  “I have no idea what is going on between them, but whatever it is, it is none of our business.  What _is_ our business is to protect their brand from bad publicity, and we’re all going to do our best to make sure that we do that.”   
  


*****

  
  
        The ‘ _Dorothy_ ’ video hit the TV airwaves like a neutron bomb.  But the reaction was just as John had predicted.   The vast majority of those who viewed the video took it as a satire of the gossip that had so recently been circulating.  While of course there were those who found the video shocking and inappropriate, their voices were more than shouted down by a majority of viewers who thought the video was hilarious.  
  
         John was a big enough man not to say, “I told you so” to Paul and their manager, but mainly because he didn’t want to get Paul all twisted up with nerves again.  It had been a near thing the other day, and John realized later that he was lucky that he hadn’t pushed Paul over the edge with all that crazy talk about living under a microscope for the rest of their bleeding lives.  What was he thinking?  Paul had a tendency to take such pronouncements literally, for heaven’s sake.   It was as if the poor man was plugged directly into a light socket, the way he could react so strongly to any worrisome suggestion.  These thoughts caused him to pick up the phone and call Paul, who was at Cavendish this evening.  
  
         Mary answered the phone.  
  
         “Is your old man there?” John asked her cheekily.  
  
         “There’s no old men around here,” Mary said back.  
  
         “Ok, well, I’ll talk to Paul then,” John chuckled.  
  
         A moment later Paul was on the line.  “What’s up, John?”  
  
         “It’s me, waiting for a time when you don’t answer the phone with ‘ _what’s up, John’_ ,” John said.  
  
         “We haven’t even started talking yet, and already out of your mouth is an insult.  I don’t know _why_ I talk to you,” Paul’s voice reflected a certain pretend poutiness.  
  
         John laughed.  “You know you can’t resist hearing my dulcet tones,” John crooned.  “Look.  I’m missing you, and I just happened to look outside and the paps are gone.  Why don’t you get your bum home?  It’s about time.”  
  
         This made Paul nervous for some reason.  “Not sure that’s a good idea,” he said.  
         
         “You’ll _never_ be sure it’s a good idea, Paul, so you might as well just pack up and come home.”    
  
         “I don’t like to leave Mary alone in the house,” Paul said.  
  
         This stumped John momentarily.  “Then I’ll come over there, and move in with you two.”  
  
         “John!  She’s my daughter!”  
  
         “You’re such a prig, Paul.  She obviously is okay with it.  She’s always inviting me over.  In fact, I’m on my way now…”  
  
         “John – really – it’s…”  
  
         “This is the sound of me hanging up … I’m on my way!”  John hung up the phone and laughed cheerfully. Now that he had taken the bull by the horns, so to speak, he felt empowered and energized.   He took the stairs two at a time, and started throwing clothing and much-needed items into a suitcase.  Sometimes Paul just needed a firm hand.  Hadn’t he had to reel him in hundreds of times over the years?   John decided that he would stay at Cavendish forever if necessary, until Paul saw reason and moved back home with him.  
  
         Paul meanwhile had been sent into a mini-panic.  He tried to call John back, but the bloody great baboon wasn’t answering the phone.  Torn over what to do next, he finally settled on something.  “Mary!” he called, going in search of her.  He found her reading a book in the sitting room.  “Mary, John’s coming over!”  
  
         Mary looked up and saw her father’s panicked face.  “Oh?  Well, that’s lovely.  There’s plenty of food for all of us,” she said.  Then she noted how worried her father was.  “What’s wrong Daddy?” she asked sweetly.  
  
         “I think he intends to stay here,” Paul said weakly.  
  
         “For the night?” Mary asked, perplexed by her father’s concern.  
  
         “For _forever_ , I’m afraid,” Paul said, managing just a weak smile this time.  
  
         Mary giggled.  “I suspect Mum will have something to say about that,” she said.  “But I also suspect he is lonely there by himself, and it has to get awkward for you both sneaking over to Uncle Ritchie’s house all the time.”  
  
         Paul was shocked!  Shocked!  “Mary!” he exclaimed.  
  
         Mary started giggling again.  “Honestly, Daddy, do you think I don’t know?  I’m not a _complete_ idiot.”  
  
         Paul shook his head, and quit the room.  “This is too much for me,” he mumbled under his breath.  He hated it when events got away from him.  He rushed upstairs, desperately trying to figure out what to do about bedrooms.  There was no way he was going to have Mary see him sharing her mother’s bedroom with John.  That at least was not happening.  So he’d have to put John up in one of the other bedrooms.  
  
         Mary heard the commotion upstairs, and smiling, she followed her father up the stairs.  He was standing in the hallway between several bedrooms, running his hands through his hair in confused silence.  “Daddy,” she said, and he turned around to see her.  “I’ll fix up the guest room, why don’t you bring a few things in there for yourself?”  
  
         “ _I’m_ not going to stay there, _John_ is,” Paul said sternly.  
  
         “Dad, you don’t have to go through the charade on my behalf,” Mary said flatly.  “ _Really_.”  Paul showed no sign of commenting.  “You don’t have to sneak down the hallway in the middle of the night, it’s okay.”  Mary was meeting her father’s eyes, finally.  
  
         “Mary, I don’t want to talk about this with you.  It isn’t any of your business, and it is very awkward for me.”  
  
         “Well, if you want to be awkward around me, that’s okay.  But if you don’t want to be awkward around me, then that’s okay too.”  Mary kissed her father on his cheek, and went about the business of putting fresh sheets on the guest bed.  
  
         The bell at the gate buzzed, and Paul sighed heavily and went down stairs to release the gate.  A moment later John was walking across the courtyard carrying a suitcase, and whistling a cheerful tune.  Paul stood in the doorway, shaking his head ever so slightly.  When John got to the door he handed Paul the suitcase.  
  
         “Welcome me home!” he declared cheerfully, and shouldered past Paul into the hall.  “Where’s Mary?”  
  
         “Here I am!” she cried, tripping down the stairs.  “I just finished making your bed.”  When she got to the bottom she quickly enveloped John in a hug.  “I’ve made some dinner.  Are you hungry?”  John laughed and nodded in the affirmative, and Mary moved off to the kitchen.  
  
         “She’s a corker,” John told Paul with a big grin.  “Obviously, she takes after her mother.”  
  
         “Ha, ha, laugh-a-line with Lennon again…” Paul said in a phony announcer voice, although his sense of humor had not entirely returned to him.  “So what’s gotten into you?” Paul asked him.  
  
         “It’s what’s finally gotten _out_ ,” John insisted.  “I’m not afraid of these fools anymore, and neither should you be.  Your wife and our children all know the truth now.  The worst fear was that they would find out through the press.  Well, that’s off the table now, so I don’t think we should slink around in the dark anymore.  It makes the whole thing feel sleazy.”  
  
         Paul shushed John a bit, worried that his voice was traveling to Mary’s ears in the kitchen.   “John, you’re moving too fast for me,” Paul half-whispered, and taking John by the arm he pulled him in to the sitting room.  “I won’t make a decision like this without consulting Linda, and I still have James to worry about.”  
  
         “Well, let’s do that then,” John urged.  “Let’s all go down to Sussex for a few days, and have a group meeting.  If we agree to stick together, it won’t matter what people think or say.”  
  
         “Where’s all this coming from all of a sudden?”  Paul’s breath was short in response to John’s enthusiasm.  
  
         “I’ve just decided I’m tired of being afraid to live my fuckin’ life!” John exalted.  
  
         Paul was suspicious of John’s manic mood.  He figured – if the past was anything to go by – that there was going to be a major crash coming in the near future, and he didn’t want to be taken on that crazy roller coaster ride if he could help it.  “John, you’ve got an idea, and you’re excited about it.  But you need to think on it for a while, to see if you can see the potential downside.  I’m seeing downsides left and right.”  
  
         “But you always do, Paul, that is what you do!” John responded with vigor. “What _I_ do is see the upside!  If we both see the downside, we’ll _never_ accomplish anything.”  
  
         Paul changed the subject.  “Were there photographers out there when you arrived?” he asked, gesturing in the direction of the front of the house.  
  
         “Not that I saw,” John said.  
  
         “I haven’t seen them today,” Paul admitted.  “Well, there’s no harm in your staying here tonight…”  
  
         “I’m gonna make it worth your while, babe, you have _no_ idea…”        
  
         “Dad!  John!  Dinner!”  Mary called from the dining room  
  
         “Saved by the bell,” Paul laughed, as they both moved in the direction of dinner.  
  


*****

  
  
        Later that night, John, Paul and Mary were all in the sitting room, and Mary was asking the two men about their early friendship.  She was deeply entertained by them, and swayed by their charm.  Even though Paul was her father, and she knew John very well by then, she was not immune to their combined charisma.  The meal had been good, the conversation fun, and the wine relaxing.  Controversy had been kicked to the curb, and they spoke of music, Mary’s work, and even some world events.  
  
         As they sat in the sitting room, a fire burned in the fireplace.  They each held a glass of wine, and their conversation had slowed down and become more desultory.  John was the first to venture into uncharted territory.  He turned towards Mary, and asked,  
  
         “How are you dealing with this whole thing about your Dad and me?”  
  
         Paul looked up sharply and was about to speak, but Mary cut him off by responding first.  
  
         “I don’t have a vote on it,” she chuckled.  She smiled at her father.  “It’s none of my business.”  
  
         “That’s what I keep saying,” Paul told her firmly.  
  
         “But, since you asked,” Mary looked at John now.  “As long as my mother is okay with it, and as long as my dad is happy, then I’m not going to worry about it.”  Again, Mary turned to her father.  “I’ve been trying to tell you for days now that this isn’t a big drama for me,” she added.  “If this is the truth of our existence, then let’s not be awkward about it.”  Mary stopped for a moment and then continued.  “But you haven’t seemed so happy about it lately.  Daddy – I’d like to know what’s going on with you.”  
  
         Paul was watching his daughter with wondering eyes.  She was so like her mother sometimes, it was almost scary.  “Mary, why does this matter to you so much?” he asked.  
  
         “Because I love you, and I hate to see you so upset.”  Mary’s response was prompt and direct.  
  
         Paul considered her response.  “I feel a loyalty to your mother, not to speak about this with you without her here.  Do you understand?  It wouldn’t be fair.  But when we go home, you and I can sit down with your mum, and we’ll talk about it.”  
  
         Mary took that in.  “But what about John?” she finally asked, softly.  She had noted that John had gone quiet, and was studying his hands – which was very unusual for him.  
  
         “What about me?” John asked with a gentle smile.  
  
         “You and my Dad love each other.  There’s no crime in that.  Why can’t you own that in front of me?”  
  
         “I own it!  I own it!” John declared comically, making Mary laugh.  
  
         Paul laughed too, and then asked his daughter, “What is it you want from me?”  
  
         “I want you to be free to be yourself in front of me.”  Mary thought for a moment.  “But don’t go overboard.   I don’t want _too_ much information!”  
  
         John and Paul laughed out loud at that.  Finally, Paul got up and went over to Mary, and dragged her into a hug.  He whispered into her ear, “I love you, I love your mum, and I love John.”


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is driving down to Sussex with John and Mary; once they arrive stuff happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I took the plunge and have written about Paul's family. It is hard for me to do, because I hate to exploit them in any way. I'm just making up personality traits for them, and no doubt they are completely wrong and so the main thing to take away is that this is FICTION.

        Paul really couldn’t believe it.  Here he was driving down to Sussex with John in the shotgun position, and his daughter Mary in the backseat.  John and Mary were chatting away about this and that, but Paul was thinking of what lay ahead.  
  
         In Paul’s mind, the night before had a kind of surreal twist to it.  He had insisted upon staying up until Mary went to bed before accompanying John to the guest room, because he did not want his daughter to see him going off to bed with John.  Meanwhile, throughout the waiting up vigil, John had a huge nasty twinkle in his eye, because he knew exactly what Paul was up to.   The problem was, Mary was a young person, and it was natural for her to stay up late.  Not so much Paul anymore.  At one point Mary had even said to her father, “Hey, you two shouldn’t stay up on my account,” to which Paul quickly responded, “Oh, I’m not tired yet.”  John had snickered loudly from his seat in the wing chair.  
  
         And of course, the morning was awkward for Paul too.  He had gotten up a bit earlier than he normally would, showered and dressed and went downstairs, leaving John still sleeping peacefully.  Paul had done this on the off chance that Mary had awakened early, and he didn’t want her to see him coming down the stairs – disheveled – at the same time as John.  But Mary was a young person, and sleeping late in the morning was natural to her, so of course she wasn’t awake yet, and then Paul had to sit around bored out of his mind for two hours until John finally bestirred himself.  John had come down in his bathrobe (and nothing else, as far as Paul could tell, much to his irritation – a little modesty was called for in front of his daughter) and he had berated Paul for being such an ass – _why are you behaving like a character out of a Victorian play_?  In fact, it was while John was complaining loudly that he had been upset when he awoke to find Paul gone because he had been looking forward to another fuck in the morning that Mary had walked in.   She giggled and said, “ _Should I go back out and knock first_?”   
  
         _Oh god!_ Paul thought to himself as the memory washed over him.  He shook the memory away, and forced himself to concentrate on the road again.  Now here he was taking the fox into the henhouse.  John and Mary had ganged up on him, and insisted that a family meeting was called for.  Paul had called Linda and explained, as best he could, what was going on.  Linda had said that under the circumstances a meeting sounded like a good idea!  This whole “being open” thing was going to kill him.  
  
         For her part, Mary felt bad for her father.  He was so uptight.  She didn’t know what he was thinking to have chosen this bifurcated lifestyle for himself – surely he had the wrong personality to live peacefully with such a lifestyle.  John, sure, he was cut out for an unconventional lifestyle.  Even when he had a ‘conventional’ lifestyle – married with a child - he had found a way to live it in an unconventional way by marrying a far-out Japanese performance artist.   But Mary could see that her dad was not really at ease in this scenario, and that is why she felt bad for him.  She wished there were magic words she could say that would help him relax, but all of her attempts to convey this message to him thus far had fallen on deaf ears.         
  
         John was fiddling with the maps in the door pocket.  
  
         “Don’t touch the maps,” Paul demanded reflexively.  
  
         “I just wanted to…” John started.  
  
         “No!  You touch a map and it becomes worthless!”  Paul was remembering car trips with John when they were younger.  If John got hold of the map the damn thing got folded in all the wrong places and you could never get the map to fold up properly ever again.  
  
         “That only happened the one time…”  
  
         “It happened dozens of times, John.”  
  
         “Mary, you probably already know this, but your father is a map Nazi.”  
  
         “I’m _not_ a map Nazi – you’re a map _ruiner_!”  
  
         Mary was shaking her head and giggling.  They really were too cute.  
  
         John was thoughtful for a moment.  “Remember that car trip we took to Cornwall…”  
  
         “I remember that you ate all the sandwiches.”  
  
         “You snooze, you lose, _loser_ ,” John said cheerfully.  “Anyway, why did you only bring _two_?”  
  
         “For that matter, why didn’t you bring _any_?”  Paul was getting in the spirit of the thing.  He wasn’t really angry at all.  It was just fun to match wits with John.  
  
         John fiddled with the radio.  Each time a song came on that Paul was enjoying John would quickly change the station.  Then Paul would start to enjoy the song on that station, and John would change the station again.  
  
         “Can you find one station and stick to it?” Paul griped.  
  
         “When I find one I like, I will,” John pointed out reasonably, as he changed the station yet again.  
  
         Paul sighed loudly and mumbled darkly to himself.  
  
         “Hey!” John snapped.  “I _heard_ that!”  
  
         Mary laughed out loud.  “Honestly, you two.  You’re like 8 year-olds.  Do I have to separate you?”  
  
         “Better men than you have tried,” John quipped in a low voice laden with false threat; he then ruined the effect by turning around and presenting her with a clownish expression.  
  
         “You might lose an arm if you try, Mary,” Paul said in placid agreement with John.  
  
         Mary gave herself a little hug and a secret smile.  For a few minutes, at least, her dad had let his guard down.  
  
  


*****

  
  
        Linda had been living her own struggle for the past few weeks.  She had been at home in Sussex dealing with Stella and James, doing whatever she could do to protect them from paparazzi and hurtful gossip.  Stella had come home from school the first day back from the Montserrat trip in a terrible stormy mood. She had flung herself up the stairs, into her room, and _bam_! The door slammed.  And she never thereafter said a word of what had happened at school to her mother (“protecting” her no doubt).  Stella was so like her father that it sometimes yanked at Linda’s heart.  Stella was moody and withdrawn when upset, a little haughty and overly self-sufficient at times, but – at the same time - suffused with deep empathy for others’ feelings.  It was a mixed bag of traits with sharp corners on them, but for the most part you really didn’t have to worry too much about Paul and Stella because they usually seemed to right themselves eventually if left to their own devices.  No doubt on that first day back, Stella had been taunted at school.  And no doubt she had taken it with a placid expression on her face, giving back as good or better than she had gotten.  Then she had come home and stomped into her bedroom and wouldn’t come out until she had talked herself out of her dark mood.  
  
         James was another matter.  Linda had taken the time to talk to the school headmistress and his teacher on his first day back at school.  She had explained the rumors and how she was trying to protect James from them.  James’s teacher had kept a close eye on him since then, monitoring the other children’s behavior.  But the teacher discovered that the children in her class this term were kind, and either they knew nothing about the rumors, or knew better than to repeat them at school.  Either way, it had been a huge relief to the school administration and to Linda.  Still, at any moment, it could all fall apart.  All it would take would be one careless remark…  
  
         Having to deal with these issues without Paul was hard enough, but Paul had taken Mary back to London with him, and Mary was the child who Linda found most comforting to be around.  She would have been an ally for Linda in handling the mercurial Stella and the fragile James.  Linda knew she was going to miss Mary when she moved out, but she hadn’t expected it to feel like such a huge hole in her life.  She didn’t want to hold Mary back from an exciting new life in London.  After all, Linda had had quite the exciting life when she was a young woman.  But still, Mary had been the “assistant mother” in their family for many years now, and Linda missed her “assistant.”  
  
         Now, apparently, Mary had joined forces with John and had persuaded Paul that a family meeting on the subject of their lifestyle choices was necessary.  Linda had spoken to Mary after she spoke to Paul the night before, and Mary had explained that Paul was going to have “a freaking stroke” if their family relationships were not normalized soon.  Linda doubted that there was much anyone could do to modify Paul’s behavior.  Paul marched to his own drummer, and they would probably have to wait until he decided on his own to allow John to really become a part of their family.  All they could really do, Linda thought, was to let him know that they were all willing to live in harmony with each other if he would let them.  
  
  
         It wasn’t as if this is what Linda had wanted out of her marriage – to welcome her husband’s other lover in – but it was a better solution to all live together in harmony than to continue to maintain the artificial boundaries that separated one of Paul’s lives from the other.  Linda had gone along with everything thus far, and it was too late to call foul now.  So, given all the circumstances, she had come to believe that Mary was right in seeking an open discussion on the subject.  Still, it was going to be excruciating for Paul, and also for her.  Linda would be able to hide it, but she doubted Paul could. Oh, well.  Linda decided that she would have to view this approach as medicine that Paul needed.  He didn’t want to take it, but he needed it to get well, so Linda was going to make sure he got it.   
  


*****

  
  
        It was a mild spring night for Sussex, and Linda had the windows open in the kitchen.  Paul was seated at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of after-dinner coffee, and Linda sat down to join him.  For a few moments, they sat opposite each other quietly enjoying their coffee before Paul spoke.  
  
         “I’m sorry about all this drama, Lin,” he said softly.  
  
         “From what I can tell, you didn’t have a choice.  John and Mary forced you into it.”  Linda was smiling to show that she was okay with it.  
  
         “You didn’t have to invite John to stay in the house with us,” Paul told his wife.  “I was going to drop him off at the windmill.”  
  
         “It might feel awkward having him here for a little while,” Linda said calmly, “but over time it will feel less so.”  
  
         “But should it?” Paul asked her.  “Is this the right thing for the kids?”  
  
         “Well, what would have happened if you hadn’t brought John back in to your life.  Have you ever thought about that? Because I have.”  
  
         Paul’s eyebrow crooked in silent inquiry.  
  
         “If you had turned your back on John’s propositions, I think you would have regretted it.  I think it would have soured our relationship, and we may have fallen apart, and the children would have lost a 2-parent childhood.”  
  
         Paul had never thought about what would have happened if he’d said ‘no’ to John for the simple reason that he could never say ‘no’ to John and make it stick, so no point in thinking about an impossible ‘what if’.  But now he did think about it.  Linda was right.  In the ‘70s, he had been missing John constantly, but telling himself it was about their creative partnership first, their friendship second, and not about sex at all.  But really, their relationship was organic.  All of the parts of it were one indivisible whole.   They could not be creative partners if they weren’t friends – they had proved this in 1969.  And they couldn’t be friends without being lovers – they had proved this also in 1969.   And they couldn’t be creative partners without being lovers, because the sexual acts were only physical manifestations of their creative intimacy.  They had proved this fact thousands of times over their years together.  
  
         “I could never have turned my back on John,” is what Paul finally murmured, as if it were a terrible admission.  
  
         Linda nodded, and stared into her coffee cup.  She wondered if the reverse was true.  Could Paul ever turn his back on her?  So far, the answer was “no”, and this provided Linda with some comfort.  
  
         “How are you holding up, Lin?” Paul asked her gently, grabbing her hand and changing the subject simultaneously.  
“Has it been very difficult here, dealing with Stella and James alone?”  
  
         “Yes, it has,” Linda said with direct honesty.  “I’m missing Mary tremendously.  She has a way of making every one calm down when things are iffy.”  
  
         Paul grimaced and then laughed.  “You’re telling me?”  Linda laughed with him in acknowledgement, but then Paul added, “You have that quality too, Linda.  I have always been in awe of that quality of yours, and it has always been a huge comfort to me.  That’s where she gets it from.  She is so like you.”  
  
         Linda was flattered.  The smile she gave Paul was natural and sunny.  She squeezed his hand back.  
  
         “Let’s go to bed,” Paul suggested warmly.  Linda was more than willing, and even though she knew John was somewhere in the house, she wasn’t going to let that bother her.  She hoped it wouldn’t bother Paul, but it probably would.   
  


*****

  
  
        John had been hanging out in the family great room with Stella and Mary after James went to bed.  They were regaling him with family stories.  He felt as though they were priming him with these memories in order to pull him closer into their milieu.  Obviously, Mary had filled Stella in on the goings on at Cavendish, because the two girls were acting in concert as they pulled out family photo albums, and showed them to John.  John was touched.  He wished there was something he could share with them, but most of his memories of their father were at least tinged with intimacy, so he volunteered little beyond funny band stories.  
  
         He was seated in the great room when Paul and Linda walked in, hand in hand. “We’re off to bed then, you lot,” Paul said cheerfully.  
  
         John looked quickly at his watch and saw that it was relatively early still.  Even though John had known that this was going to happen - this was Linda’s house and it was her turn, too - he still felt a reflexive twinge of jealousy.  But instead of giving in to the jealousy, John smiled vaguely as if he was not interested in what was going to happen between them upstairs in their bedroom, and said, “Good night, see you in the morning.”   Tomorrow they would have to have the “family meeting” that Mary was insisting upon, and while John was looking forward to it on one level, on another level it was the kind of anticipation he’d felt before a big performance.  There were a lot of complicated nerves involved.  
  
         As Paul and Linda had disappeared upstairs, John didn’t realize he had been watching them go until Mary said, “This must be hard for you.”  
  
         John looked at her abruptly, and saw that Mary was looking at him with compassion, and Stella was also watching him carefully.  John shrugged.  “I’m used to it,” he said.  “I’ve had to settle for sharing him with women ever since I met him.”  
  
         “Doesn’t it bother you that the one you love also loves someone else?”  This was Stella, being direct and to the point.  
  
         John snorted.  “ _Yeaahhh_ …” he said, laughing.  Then he saw that Stella wasn’t amused.  
  
         “I don’t get it,” she said truculently.  “I don’t know why Mum puts up with it, and I don’t know why you put up with it.  What’s so special about him that you’re both willing to be unhappy half the time?”  
  
         “You’re still young.  You haven’t experienced a take-over-your-soul type love yet, but someday you will.  Then you will look back on this conversation and you will understand why.”  
  
         Stella shook her head in willful denial.  “It’s so confusing,” she said grumpily.  
  
         John laughed.  “Not half as confusing for you as it was for your Dad and me!”   Stella cocked her head to one side, clearly skeptical but not knowing why.  John met Mary’s eyes, and he saw that she was quietly watching Stella, but not interfering.  Clearly, Mary thought that Stella needed to get this out of her system.  John tried again.  “Your Dad and I aren’t homosexual you know,” John said softly.  “We both really enjoy sex with women.  When we were growing up, we didn’t know about bisexuality.  We thought you were one thing or the other, and a person obviously couldn’t be one without also not being the other.  This was confusing to us, because what were _we_ if we weren’t one or the other?”  John squinted his eyes as he tried to stare into Stella’s darkened blue ones – her expression was so like her father’s when she was confused.  Pained.  They both looked pained when they were confused.  
  
         Mary said, “I never thought about it that way.  Stella and I learned about bisexuality from friends a few years ago,” she continued, turning to Stella to engage her on the subject.  “But I guess when you and Dad were our ages no one talked about it.”  
  
         “No one did, you’re right.  Of course, we saw all kinds of crazy shit in Hamburg – you have no idea!  We were playing in the Reeperbahn - at night and in the wee hours it was a very rowdy red-light district at the time.   There were queer clubs, and transvestite clubs, and stripper clubs – any kind of sex you might want, you could witness there.  I was so fascinated by it, that I visited all the clubs, and I became especially fascinated by transvestites.  Some of ‘em were completely hetero, and just liked to dress like women.  They were the mind-bogglers to me.  But the ones who were also gay were outrageously flirtatious.  I probably was attracted to them because of their duality – it struck a chord with me, because of my own confused feelings about sexuality.  Sometimes – some of them – were so much like women that you didn’t realize at first that they were men.”  
  
         “You mean like your new music video?” Stella asked with a snide look on her face.  “I’ve had no end of crap from people at school over that.  I want to thank you personally for that.”  
  
         John winced a little.  Paul had been worried about how the video would affect his children, and he – John – had just rolled over him and all of his objections.  It was yet another reminder that while Paul was bound to the earth by deep roots, he, John, was just barely bound to it by slim tethers.  John decided to let the subject pass without further comment.  Instead, he continued his story.  
  
         “Anyway, we saw all this stuff in Hamburg but we couldn’t relate it to our lives back in Liverpool, which were quite conventional, really.  There was a kind of mindset we’d go into while in Hamburg, and then we’d turn it off when we went home.”  
  
         Mary and Stella were listening closely, Mary with a serene and interested expression on her face, and Stella with a cloudy frown of concentration on hers.  
  
         “But because it was so over-the-top in Hamburg, we didn’t think this was how real people behaved in their real lives, at least not during the day, if that made any sense.  So we still didn’t see how we could have these feelings for each other, but still want to be with women.  It was very confusing for us, so we didn’t talk about it at all.  We went years without talking about it.  It happened, but we didn’t discuss it beforehand, and we didn’t acknowledge it afterwards.  And we learned to hide it from everyone; we got very good at closing that part of our relationship off from everyone else, while still managing to convey our closeness to each other.”  John smiled as he recalled something.  “Your Dad has called it ‘hiding in plain sight’.  And that is what we have done for over 30 years now.  You can’t just suddenly change your habits and your method of interacting overnight.  It is going to take us both some time to get used to the idea.”  
  
         “Well, at least you are open to talking about it.  Dad just won’t go there with me,” Mary said sadly.  
  
         “He’s your _father_ ,” John said firmly.  “It’s a whole different thing for him.  I’m just kind of a goofy loose-cannon uncle, but _he’s_ your father.  He isn’t going to want to talk about sex with you _period_ , much less talking about his feelings for me.”  
  
         Mary nodded as John spoke, silently accepting the truth of what he said.  Of course, she knew all this was true, but it pained her so much to know her father had to cut off a whole side of himself from his wife and children.  It seemed like a harsh price to pay just because he was stuck in the middle between two people who obviously adored him.  
  
         Stella spoke.  “I’m having a hard time seeing him like my Dad – the dad I thought I knew,” she ventured.  She was looking shyly at John now, as though she wasn’t sure she could trust him with such a heavy confession.  “Ever since he told us about you, he has seemed almost like a stranger to me.”  
  
         John felt as though he had been socked in the stomach.  He had made a lot of assumptions about how Paul’s kids felt about it all based on Mary’s reactions.  But Mary was only one of Paul’s children, and it began to dawn on John that he shouldn’t have been so presumptuous as to assume that he knew Paul’s children better than Paul did.  
  
         Mary asked, “Does this bother you a lot Stell?”  
  
         Stella thought about it and shrugged.  “No, not really.  It’s weird, though.  I know he is Dad, and that he loves Mum, and that all the things he was before he still is.  It’s just that now I know there’s more to him than I ever suspected, and it is messing a bit with my mind.”  
  
         John smiled at Stella’s sweet honesty.  She was so like her father that there was nothing for John to do but love her unconditionally.   “When I was your age, I was just getting to know my mother.  She had been absent through most of my childhood.  I didn’t have my father, either.  So as I met my mother, I was actually meeting this strange adult.  She was a very sexual person, and it was weird to know that your parent could be this non-parental person separate from you, their child.  I think I understand what you’re feeling, but it’s worse for you because you have this long history of your dad being your dad, and now you have to see him as a whole human being.”  
  
         Stella felt relieved to hear John say he understood.  “It isn’t that I disapprove of you or how you feel about my dad,” she said, “but I’m just uncertain about what it all means for my family.”  
  
         Mary grabbed Stella’s hand and squeezed it gently, while John leaned back against the sofa and forced himself to relax.  He had gotten quite tense while threading his way through this delicate conversation with Stella.  
  
         “The main thing, girls,” he said to Mary and Stella, “is that you can always talk to me.  It is harder for your parents, they are probably always going to try to protect you from everything, but you can always talk to me.  One way or the other it will work out, because it has to.  I’m not going anywhere, your mum’s not going anywhere, and neither one of us is going to let your dad go anywhere. We’ll tie him to a post and take turns watching him if necessary!”  
  
         Mary and Stella giggled.  “That’s quite a visual,” Stella joked.   
  


*****

  
  
        The next day, Paul spent the morning and early afternoon with his son in Rye.  He took him to a penny arcade and they played all the pinball machines.  They walked down Mermaid Street eating ice cream cones, and then stopped in a small restaurant to eat falafels.  Dessert before lunch!  James was delighted to spend some alone time with his father, and when they were seated in the small restaurant consuming their falafels, Paul had asked James how school was going.  
  
         James didn’t know if he should say anything, but then decided he might as well.  His dad would know what to say to make him feel better.  
  
         “I don’t like school too much anymore,” James said while chewing on the edge of his pita bread.  “Some of the kids aren’t very nice sometimes.”  
  
         Paul was alarmed.  “Oh?” He asked, his food frozen in mid air between the plate and his mouth.  “Have they been saying mean things to you James?”  
  
         James was relieved his father had asked that.  “Yeah, they do.  Out on the schoolyard, when the teachers aren’t there.”  
  
         “What do they say, James?” Paul asked gently, trying very hard not to sound too overtly interested.  
  
         James shrugged and busied himself with his food for a few minutes.  “They said stuff about you and Uncle John,” he admitted finally.  
  
         Paul allowed a long loaded moment to pass before saying, “What kind of stuff have they said – about John and me?”  
  
         “Well, this one boy Dylan, he said his father told him that you and Uncle John are queer for each other.”   James didn’t dare look up to see his father’s eyes.  
  
         “Do you know what ‘queer’ means, James?”  
  
         “They call boys ‘queer’ who are not good at sports, and who are kind of weird,” James responded, but his eyes reflected that he really didn’t know what ‘queer’ meant.  
  
         “When two men love each other like a man and woman love each other, some people call that ‘queer’,” Paul explained in as calm a voice as he could.  “There is nothing wrong with it, son, it is just a different way to be.”  
  
         “Do you mean two men get _married_ to each other?”  James’s eyes reflected both shock and disbelief.  
  
         “Well, no, not that, because the law doesn’t permit it,” Paul said with a smile.  “But you don’t have to be married to someone to love them.”  
  
         James was thoughtful as he digested this information.  Seemingly out of nowhere James said, “Sean told me that you and Uncle John sleep in the same bed sometimes, like you and mum do.”  
  
         Paul felt the words hitting him like a blow.  Paul knew this had happened, because John had told him about it.  It had happened last Christmas.  Paul had hoped James had let the memory go, but clearly he had not.  
  
         “John told me that Sean had said that,” Paul responded.  
  
         “Uncle John told me it was only because you wanted Sean to have a room by himself.”  James looked up and finally met his father’s eyes.  The question was there in his eyes:  _is that true_?  
  
         Paul was at a crossroads.  He could lie to his son, and comfort him.  Obviously, his son didn’t want this to be true.  Or he could tell him the truth, and deal with it.  Either way he was hurting his son.  There wasn’t a pleasant alternative available.  
  
         “Well, John didn’t exactly lie.  We do want Sean to have his own room, and his own privacy.  But it wasn’t the whole truth, either,” Paul said, holding his breath.  
  
         James nodded but said nothing.  Paul persevered.  
  
         “When I live with your Uncle John, we sleep in the same bed, because we love each other.  Similar to the way your mum and I love each other.  But John didn’t want to tell you this, because he thought it was my job to tell you.”  
  
         James was quiet for a long time.  He didn’t move, he didn’t eat or drink.  He was thinking.   Finally, he asked, “But what about _mummy_?”  James face looked like it was about to crumble.  
  
         Paul rushed in to comfort.  “Your mum and I love each other the most, and always will.  Nothing will ever change that.  We will never leave each other.”  
  
         James’s face reflected his confusion.  Paul sighed.  This was bad, this was as bad as he ever feared, but he had to buckle down and finish what he had started.  “I love John one way, but I love your mum another way.  And no matter what happens, I love you and your sisters the most.  Nothing will ever change that.  And your mum knows I love John, and she understands it.  She understands that he is important to me, just like the rest of you are.”  
  
         “So Dylan is _right_?”  James’s voice sounded brittle and broken.  
  
         “No, Dylan is _not_ right, because what he said, and the way he said it, was meant to hurt you, and that is wrong no matter what.  It isn’t any of his business, or his father’s business, how our family chooses to live.  You don’t have to tell him anything about it, and in fact I advise you not to.  All you have to do is ignore him. He’ll get bored and give up after a while.”  
  
         “Yeah,” James acknowledged.  “He already has stopped doing it so much, because I just told him it wasn’t true, and then stopped talking to him.  He wasn’t ever my friend anyway.”  
  
         Paul smiled at his son – a genuine smile, full of pride.  “You’re a very intelligent person, James,” he finally said.  “Friends are people who care about your feelings, and try not to make you feel bad about yourself.”  
  
         James nodded.  He really didn’t want to talk about this anymore, and he didn’t really want to know anymore.  What he took away from it was what he had already somehow knew, deep inside:  His dad and Uncle John shared a special relationship that James didn’t really understand, nor did he even want to understand it.  But he wasn’t going to let bullies like Dylan get the best of him, so he was going to take his father’s advice and ignore the boy’s taunts.  
  


*****

  
        
         When Paul and James got back, they had managed to climb back in to their protective shells, and were laughing and chatting as they came in the door.  Paul understood that James was still digesting what he heard, and would no doubt have more questions later, maybe of his mother.  Consequently, Paul immediately took Linda aside, and whispered to her about his conversation with James.  Paul warned Linda that James might want to ask her questions, so she should be prepared for it.  Linda didn’t know what to think, beyond a sense of despair that James had been exposed to this gossip despite all of her attempts to protect him, and beneath the noses of the school’s administration, and James hadn’t even told her about it.  
  
         From across the room, John saw this happen and had to again fight feelings of jealousy and rejection.  Living in the middle of this family was going to be a lot harder for him than he had reckoned on.   Back in London, when it was a theoretical possibility, John had thought that being open within the family would make everything easier.  But now that it was actually happening, he had begun to understand Paul’s concerns, and even respect him for having anticipated how difficult it would be.  _Why do I ever question his judgment?_ John asked himself.  
  
         At the dinner table, everyone spoke freely, and John did his best to join in and feel at one with the McCartneys.  They were a tight bunch, but once their patriarch had indicated that he wanted John to be one of them, they all worked at making that a reality.  It was as dessert was being served that Linda nudged Paul, and indicated he should begin.  
  
         Paul knew he had to lead the meeting, because this was his family, and he wasn’t going to be seen sitting back in the weeds while someone else took charge.  He looked around at the faces at the table.  John was watching him with a look of empathetic support.  Mary was giggling with her sister Stella.  James was busy scooping up the pudding his mother had made.  And Linda, who had just sat down with her own portion of pudding, was looking at him with a committed determination.  Paul nodded and, taking a breath, proceeded.  (Heather was not there; she had reacted so badly to the initial news, her mother didn’t think she would be able to handle a group meeting, and so Linda had not invited her home for the occasion.  Heather was going to be a long-term project for Linda to deal with.)  
  
         “We’re going to have a family discussion,” Paul announced.  “We have a number of issues we need to work out together.”  
  
         All eyes were on Paul as he made this declaration.  Paul forced himself to proceed despite the sudden onset of stomach churning nerves.  “We’re going to talk about what it means to be a family, and how our family is going to work from now on.”


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Family Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To just remind everyone of the basic timeline of this AU story, this chapter takes place in or around late April 1988. John and Paul have just launched their new album, and are about to prepare for a concert tour. The tabloids have been printing gossip about John and Paul's relationship, which in turn forced John, Paul and Linda to disclose the relationship to their children, and to seek living arrangements that will maintain a healthy balance of privacy and family access to everyone. By the start of this chapter, all the children know about John and Paul's relationship, so the family meeting is about how this will affect the family.
> 
> I am a bit squeamish about including the McCartney children like this, but at this point in the story I couldn't see a way around it. If you disapprove of the kids being included, you won't want to read this chapter. 
> 
> Reminder: This is pure fiction. I do not know any of these people, and to the extent I get any of it right, it is purely by accident.
> 
> Boring Terminology note for those of you Brits who love to twit me about my occasional ill-placed Americanisms: In the U.S., government-operated free schools are called "public" schools, and independently operated schools, with entrance requirements and tuition, are called "private" schools. In England, I know the terminology is different. What Americans call "private" schools are called "public schools" in England. My problem is, I don't really know what you Brits call the government-operated free schools if not "public", what are they? I've heard them described as "comprehensives", but I don't know if that is the proper term. Thus, when the discussion about public vs. private schools takes place, I have it coming out of Linda's mouth, and she is American, so I am using American idiom and not British idiom when I use those terms. So there! :)

         It was a bit like performing, Paul thought to himself, as he saw the waiting faces.  He could get through this if he just pretended he was about to do a show for an audience.  _They want to like me, no reason to be nervous…_ The pump was primed.  Mary and Stella were more than ready for this, and Linda had spent a good hour with James at his bedtime the night before talking to him about the disquieting new information, while also comforting and reassuring him that nothing about his life or his parents’ marriage was going to change in a fundamental way.  She had reported to Paul that James at least wanted to believe what she had told him, and so he was going to approach the meeting with a mind willing to be convinced that all was well and would remain so.  Nothing left for Paul to do but to start the discussion.  
  
         “Your mum and I feel that you’re all now old enough to have a discussion about John’s and my relationship, and what that means to our family.”  Paul stopped and looked around at his three children and what he saw were open, slightly questioning, attentive expressions.  This emboldened him to proceed.  “I wanted John to be here, too, because your mum and I hope to have him become more involved in our family.”  Now he looked at Linda and then John.  They both looked slightly stressed, but they silently urged him to continue.  “First, we want to ask you what you think of that idea.”  Paul stopped and was faced with silence.  His beseeching eyes reached Mary’s, and she got the message.  
  
         “I really love John, and I like the idea of him being part of our family.  Stell, what do you think?”  Mary’s voice was matter-of-fact, as though she was talking about a redecoration scheme.  
  
         “I dig John too,” Stella said, a little reluctantly, and giving John a slight nod of the head in his direction, “but I’m not quite sure what it all _means_.   I mean, how will this actually _work_ in real life?  Can we talk about that before I decide what I think?” Paul nodded in the affirmative and then turned to look at James.  
  
         _Everyone_ looked at James.  He slowly realized they were all looking at him, and he finally said, “I only want what mum wants.  I want mummy to be happy.”  
  
         Linda teared up, and realized it was her turn to talk.  “James, as we said to each other last night, you want me to be happy because I’m your mum and you love me.  And I feel the same way about your Dad.  I want him to be happy because I’m his wife and I love him.  And having John as part of his life makes your Dad happy.”  
  
         “But does it make _you_ happy, mum? _You_ count as much as Dad does!” Stella asked her mother.  She had a very laser-like expression on her face.  Her blue eyes literally snapped with unexpressed energy.  
  
         Linda saw the intense loyalty in her daughter’s eyes, and was deeply touched by it.  Paul looked just like that when he was leaping in to defend her from her many and varied detractors in the rock press.  Linda smiled softly.  “I am only really happy when the people I love are happy.  If they’re not happy, I’m not happy.  That goes for all of you, by the way.  And so, if your Dad cannot be happy without John in his life, then I cannot be happy.  That is truly how I feel, Stella.”  
  
         Stella took it for what it truly was:  in a perfect world Linda would prefer to have her husband to herself.  But it wasn’t a perfect world, and her mother had decided to compromise her desires a bit in order to accommodate her father’s desires.  She still wasn’t sure that it was fair of her father to put her mother in that situation, so she turned her laser eyes on Paul.  
  
         “Dad,” Stella began, and then she thought to turn to John.  “No offense, John, but we all speak frankly at our family meetings…”  
  
         “We speak frankly, but we use neutral words and a polite tone of voice,” Paul interrupted firmly, with a no-nonsense father voice.  
  
         “Yeah, right, that too,” Stella acknowledged.  
  
         John cleared his throat.  “You can say whatever you want about me, Stella, neutral or not.  I will not take it personally.”  
  
         Paul and Linda both looked at John doubtfully.  Paul, especially, found it impossible to imagine John _not_ taking things personally.  But Paul had warned him that this kind of thing might happen, and John had insisted on the meeting anyway, so John was going to have to suck it up and fend for himself, like the rest of the family did.  Paul turned to Stella and indicated to her non-verbally that she should continue.  
  
         “Dad, don’t you think it is selfish what you’re doing?  Mum would obviously prefer to have you to herself.  And I’m guessing that John would, too.  How can you put them both through all this?”  
  
         This comment so hit the guilt button in Paul’s brain that his immediate reaction was to burst into tears and admit that he was a complete fuck up.  But his second – and even stronger – reaction was to swallow the hurt, and respond to the perfectly legitimate point that Stella had raised.  
  
         Linda, meanwhile, had thought to leap to Paul’s defense, but saw that Paul was maintaining his composure and decided that this was between Paul and his daughter to sort out.  
  
         “Yes, baby, it is selfish, I admit,” Paul said calmly, and he hoped he had said it without any tinge of bathos.  “But I have found it not to be such an easy thing to do, even though it was my choice.  I love your mother so much that it has hurt me to have to spend less time with her.  When it was time for me to go back to London, I would feel as though I was leaving part of myself behind with your mum.  And then, when it was time for me to leave London, and come back here, then I would feel as though I was leaving part of myself behind with John.  Maybe my original impulse was selfish, but I have learned that there is an extremely high price to pay for having both John and your mother in my life.”    
  
         Paul looked around to gauge his children’s reactions.  They all were listening, rapt.  He continued.  “And, yes, it was very hard for your mother to have to deal with things down here by herself half the time.  And John has given up a lot, and sacrificed, to accommodate me.  What the three of us hope is that there is a better way for this to work, where we can all sort of coexist with each other a bit more, so there don’t need to be these constant wrenching separations between us.”  
  
         Linda chimed in.  “Your dad and I decided to keep all this from you when you were young, and James – we would have liked to keep this from you longer, but events got in the way because of the stuff the tabloids have been printing.  We never liked lying to you, but we felt it was the right thing to do at the time.  I’d like to hear your opinions on that.”  Linda looked to her children for a response.  
  
         Mary spoke up first.  “I understand why you did it this way, and I think you did the right thing.  But I also think it might have been okay if you had been truthful with us all along. But either way, it was your decision to make, and at least you made it together and acted as one.”  
  
         “I wouldn’t have liked to have known,” Stella admitted.  “I’m having a bit of trouble with it still.  I’ll tell you, when John first started coming on vacations with us, I felt like he was some kind of threat to my family.  Now I know why; I probably sensed something was going on.”  She turned to John.  “I knew how you’d said all those terrible things about my parents to the press, and I didn’t trust your motives.  If my parents had told me the truth then, I think I would have totally freaked out.”  
  
         John listened to Stella’s comments with a deeply empathetic expression.  He remembered their awkward sparring at that first family trip to Sardinia.  Obviously, Stella remembered it too.  “I remember our talk, Stella, on the beach in Sardinia.  I totally admired your loyalty to your parents, and I have to admit you scared me a little.”  
  
         Everyone laughed nervously, and then Stella picked up where she had left off.  “But, you know, over time I came to see that you and Dad had a really tight friendship.  Sometimes I fight with my girlfriends, and then we all forgive each other later.  So, yeah, I know how that works.  But still…I don’t think I would have reacted well if you had told me about this when I was younger.”  
  
         Linda turned to James and said, “Do you wish we hadn’t told you about this, James?  Do you feel this is a bad time for you to learn about it?”  
  
         James shook his head 'no'.  “I told Dad about what they were saying at school.  He had to explain it to me.”  
  
         This was the first John was learning that kids had said things to James at school.  His head turned immediately to Paul, who briefly met his stricken look with an expression that said, _I’ll tell you about it later_.  Again John felt humbled by Paul’s foresight in wanting to protect his children.  
  
         Paul spoke up again. “Stella wanted to talk about the details of how this would work.  Let’s talk about that,” he proposed.  
  
         “Why don’t you tell us what you have in mind?” Mary asked.  “That way we can tell you how we feel about it.”  Mary made eye contact with both of her siblings, and seeing that they agreed with her approach, looked back at her parents.  
  
         “I’ll start, I guess,” Paul said.  “My main thing is making sure that now that you all know about John and me, I want all of you to get comfortable with the information before we change anything.”  
  
         John heard this, and his heart sank.  He wasn’t sure Stella and James would _ever_ get comfortable with the information, and they hadn’t even considered Heather yet, who had apparently broken down over the news in Montserrat, and wasn’t strong enough emotionally to attend the family meeting.  He no longer questioned Paul and Linda’s judgment about their children, having witnessed with his own ears and eyes how accurately they had predicted their children’s reactions thus far.  He kept silent, but knew he was going to be taking Paul to task for his cowardice later.  But almost before he could finish that thought, Linda spoke up.  
  
         “I have a different view.  I think we just make whatever change we’re going to make, and we make it immediately, and then we can meet regularly to discuss problems that arise.  I don’t think it is possible for the kids to get comfortable with something they don’t understand on a real level.”  
  
         Before Paul could respond, Mary jumped in.  “I agree with mum.”  
  
         “So mum, what do _you_ think it means – this ‘change’ you talk about?”  Stella asked.  
  
         “Well, next month, Stella, you’re leaving school, and will be moving to London to work on Savile Row, right?  So, it may be a good time for us all to move up to Cavendish for most of the year.  James, it would mean you would have to change schools.  How would you feel about that?”  
  
         James didn’t have to think very long.  “I don’t like my school too much, because some of the kids are kind of mean sometimes.”  It hadn’t occurred to him until his mother had mentioned it that not only Mary but also Stella would be moving to London, and he really did not want to be left alone in Sussex while everyone else was in London.  
  
         Paul said, “James, there will be kids who are mean sometimes no matter what school you go to.  At least your friends here in Sussex know you’re a Beatle’s son, and have gotten used to it.  Your sisters took a lot of grief over that before you, so by the time you went through it wasn’t that big of a deal.  At a new school, this could be a real problem by itself, never mind the tabloid stuff.”  
  
         Linda saw that James looked worried, so she interjected, “This isn’t insoluble, Paul.  We insisted upon public schools for our own political reasons, and our desire for our children to have a normal childhood.  But a private school will be a better place for James under these new circumstances.  I am sure the private schools in London are filled with the children of well known people who deal with the tabloids, and it won’t be that big a deal to them.”  
  
         John looked at Linda with amazement and relief.  She was actually an ally of his!  Of course, she was doing it for her own reasons, in that if she moved to London she would be with her daughters and would see her husband more frequently, but still…at least their interests coalesced, and between them he felt sure they’d be able to bully Paul into doing what they wanted to do.  
  
         Paul was frowning a little, because the public school idea was one he was proud of; he was proud he and Linda had raised their children in a way that would help them be grounded and live a halfway normal life.  On the other hand, he saw Linda’s points.  
  
         Stella suddenly spoke up with a snarky, “Oh great.  James gets to go to private school.  Maybe he’ll even _learn_ something at school, rather than spending all his time beating off the bullies.”  Stella ended with an exaggerated huff, making Mary giggle.  
  
         Linda giggled too, but added, “Stella, you exaggerate.  It hasn’t been that bad.”  
  
         John, involuntarily, snickered, and then his eyes met Stella’s.  John knew how she felt about school, even if Paul and Linda didn’t.  Seeing the support in John’s eyes, Stella smiled back at him and flashed a “victory” sign in his direction.  
  
         Linda then turned to James.  “Here’s an idea.  How about you and I go up to London with your Dad, and we can visit some schools to see how you like them?”  
  
         James said firmly, “I want to live in London with all of you,” he was including his sisters, in that pronouncement, “and so, I’d like to visit some new schools.”  
  
         Linda turned to Paul, who shrugged in defeat.  Secretly, this is what he had wanted to happen – Linda and the kids living in London so that he could be in and out of the house and their lives regularly, even daily.  But he had wanted to support Linda’s desire to live out of the limelight.  Since it was Linda supporting the move to London idea now, Paul felt as though there were no more objections to the idea.  
  
         “I’d like to hear what John’s ideas are,” Mary said, getting the conversation back on track.  
  
         John felt all eyes on him.  He was nervous, because he hadn’t really understood what a “family meeting” meant.  He had sat through this businesslike and civilized conversation between adults and children and had been thoroughly impressed and amazed at how fair and respectful it all was.  He had all kinds of new respect for Paul and Linda, and the close, highly functional family they had built together, despite all the odds against them.  
  
         “Well, your dad and I are going on tour in a few months, and we’ll be on and off the road for several months.  I think if you all live at Cavendish he will be able to be with you all more often, because it is easier to fly in and out of London.”  
  
         Paul and Linda both made noises in agreement with John’s comment, and Paul said, “I hadn’t even thought of that.  That’s a good point.”  
  
         “So, you’re going on tour again?” Stella asked her father in surprise.  “When did this get decided?”  
  
         Paul laughed.  “Just a little while ago, Stell.  So much has been going on, I can’t keep it all straight.  It will be in the summer.”  
  
         “Well, I’ll be working this summer,” Stella said firmly, assuming that the tour would be a family affair, like they used to be back in the ‘70s.  
  
         “So will I,” said Mary.  
  
         “I’ve never been on a tour,” James said wistfully.  “Will I be going?”  
  
         John hadn’t thought of this.  He had naturally assumed that he would have Paul to himself on tour.  He turned reflexively to Paul, but Paul wasn’t meeting his eye.  
  
         Linda said, “Maybe we can visit your dad and John a few times during the tour,” Linda said calmly.  “Being on a tour can be very boring for kids, away from their friends.”  
  
         “I could bring a friend with me,” James suggested hopefully.  “Or Sean!”  
  
         “Well, we’ll give that some thought,” Paul said, wanting to deflect this particular line of thought until he, Linda and John had a chance to talk about it.  “So, I think the consensus is that when school term ends, we’ll move up to London for most of the year,” Paul said in conclusion.  Everyone nodded in agreement.  
  
         “But what about John?”  Mary asked.  “What does he get out of this?”  
  
         After chuckling at Mary’s wording, John said, “Well, for one thing, Paul won’t be disappearing down to Sussex every two weeks, which works for me big time.  And I think your dad will be a lot easier to live with if you all are around him most of the time.  He totally misses you when you’re not there.”  
  
         Linda added, “You don’t need to worry about what goes on between your dad, John and me, and that whole thing.  We’re the adults, and we will work our issues out privately.  We just wanted to make sure that the basic living situation is acceptable to all of you before we make our own private decisions.”  
  
         Mary nodded in understanding and approval.  She was proud of her parents, especially her father.  She knew that this was mortifying for her dad, but you couldn’t tell this by looking at him during the meeting, and he had expressed the ideas as if he was in full agreement with them, when in fact Mary knew that he hadn’t been sure of any of it.  
  
         “What about Heather?”  Silence reigned, and then they all looked at James.  “Why isn’t she here too?” he asked innocently.  
  
         Linda didn’t want to tell James that she felt Heather was too fragile for this conversation, so instead she said, “Heather lives in Scotland, you know, and it isn’t convenient for her to come down right now.  But your dad and I will be talking with her separately when she does have time to come down.”  
  
         James nodded, satisfied with this answer.  His innate fairness didn’t like to have his sister left out of the overall conversation.  
  
         “Does this answer all your questions?”  Paul asked, looking at each of his children in turn.  “Does anyone have anything else to ask or add?”  
  
         Stella spoke up.  “So, what is the family line for what we say to people when they ask about you and John?  I’ve already had a fair amount of ribbing about it at school, and I’ve told them they are full of it, and to shove off.  But I’m not sure what we’d say – like what if some of our actual friends ask about it?  What are we supposed to say?”  
  
         “That’s a very good question, Stella.  What do you kids think is best?”  Paul asked, turning the question back on his children.  
  
         “I’m not saying nothin’ to nobody,” James grumbled.  “None of their business.”  He had already decided this after his talk with his father the day before.  
  
         Mary said, “James, I think that is very mature of you.  And my true friends know better than to ask me questions like that.  They won’t ask, and I won’t volunteer.”  
  
         Stella said, “I have a few friends I might want to confide in,” she said stubbornly.  “Is this forbidden?”  
  
         Linda said, “No.  You must do what you think is best for you.  Your dad and I, and John of course, will deal with any consequences of it.  Right?”  Linda looked fiercely at first Paul and then John.  She received assenting smiles from each of them.  
  
         “Okay,” Stella agreed.  “Well, then, I’ll give that some thought.  But I’m not gonna say anything about it until I understand it myself.”  
  
         “What don’t you understand about it, Stella?  This meeting was supposed to clear the air on this,” John said reasonably.  
  
         “It seems like I’m the only one who wants to know, so maybe I’ll just ask my dad about it privately.”  
  
         “But you don’t know if maybe Mary and James would like to hear the answers, too.  And I’d like a chance to respond to any of your concerns, too.”  John was meeting Stella’s eyes firmly.  
  
         “Well, I mean,” Stella responded, turning towards her parents, “when we’re at Cavendish will John be there too?”  
  
         “John and I have a home of our own in London, in Maida Vale,” Paul told her.  “It’s not far from Cavendish.”  
  
         “You _do_?”  Stella asked, non-plussed.  
  
         “Yes.  That is where I have lived when I wasn’t in Sussex.  I only just moved back in to Cavendish when Mary moved in, and because of all the…tabloid stories.”  Paul looked slightly uncomfortable as he ended the sentence.  
  
         “So, where will you live when we’re all in London?  Cavendish or with John?”  Stella asked bluntly.  
  
         “Sometimes he’ll be with me, and sometimes with you,” John answered for Paul, seeing that Paul was stumped.  “The main thing is, during the days and evenings, he and I can hang out at Cavendish frequently, so you will see more of your dad, and so will I, and so will your mother.”  
  
         “But if dad lives with you, won’t that get the tabloids curious again?”  Stella was relentless once she got started.  _Not unlike someone else in this family_ , John thought sourly to himself.  
  
         “John and I will worry about that, Stella, and we will obviously have to work that out,” Paul jumped in.  
  
         “But it has to be said,” John pointed out, getting into the spirit of the family’s frank openness, “that there is a good chance there will be a lot of gossip and rumors and the press may never leave us alone.  You all will have to deal with that, as will my sons, Julian and Sean.  We’re sorry about that, we really are, but there is not much we can do about it since we’re famous.  People are just curious about us, and it isn’t realistic to think our living arrangements can remain secret forever, and maybe not even for long.”  
  
         Paul was a little upset with John for saying this – _there he went, upsetting the apple cart again_ – but Linda was in full agreement with John’s approach.  
  
         “Yes, John, I’m glad you brought that up.  We all have to be prepared for people writing about us, and the thing is just because the rumors might be true, this doesn’t mean they have a right to pry, nor do we have a responsibility to tell them our own private business.  Your dad and I have just chosen to always ignore rumors, true, untrue, or out of context.  No point in responding to them, because it only keeps the rumors in the papers longer.  So, your dad and I will ask you not to talk to reporters or photographers or anyone else you do not know or fully trust about our home life.  It is none of their business, and they can’t be trusted, because it is hard to walk away from the kind of money the press will pay them for talking about our secrets.”  
  
         “They’re a bunch of rats,” Stella grumbled, referring to the press.  “I don’t talk to them at all about anything.  Period.”  
  
         “You’ve been protected from most of it by your mum and me, luv,” Paul said gently.  “In London, in the workplace, it will be different for you.  They’ll come at you from all directions.  I hate to advise you not to trust your co-workers or new friends, but I have learned not to trust new people, and even some of my older friends that I haven’t seen in a long time.  I wait a long time and see how they handle my friendship with them before I start trusting them with any of my private thoughts.”  
  
         “Yeah, your dad and I have been burned a thousand times over,” John agreed.  “It isn’t pleasant.  But I know from my own hard experience that you’ll never get in trouble for stuff you _didn’t_ say, so it’s best just to ignore them.”  
         
         “Okay, so we’re all going to be in and out of Cavendish, and we’re keeping our family business to ourselves,” Mary summarized.  “That sounds easy enough for me.  Stella?”  
  
         “Yeah, I can do that too,” Stella admitted.  
  
         Linda turned to James.  “Do you understand what we were talking about, James?  About how the truth may get published, and we’ll be asking you not to comment on it to people you don’t know very well and can’t trust?”  
  
         “Yes,” James said, but his voice sounded a little unsure.  
  
         “And remember,” Linda added, “if any of you are in doubt of how to handle a situation, or whether you should say something to someone, you can always talk to me or your dad first.”  
  
         “Or me,” John said flatly.  “You may find it easier to talk to _me_ , because I’m not your parents.  I won’t get all worked up and hysterical if you tell me stuff that would worry them.”  
  
         The kids all laughed heartily at that, and Linda and Paul joined in, although a little less enthusiastically.  
  
         “Any more questions kids?”  Paul asked, hoping desperately that this endless conversation was now over.  
  
         “I have one,” James said.  
  
         Paul sighed heavily, but tried to do so without making a noise.  “Yes?”  
  
         “It’s for Uncle John.”  
  
         Paul looked worried, but turned to John.  
  
         “I’m listening,” John told James.  
  
         “Does this mean that Julian and Sean are now my brothers?”  
  
         Paul let out his withheld air with a slight chuckle, and John grinned openly.  “In a way, yes, they are.  We’ll all be one family. It will be a complicated family, because Julian has his own apartment, and his own mother, and Sean spends half the year with his mother, who is not Julian’s mother.”  
  
         “Well, does Sean get to live with us in Cavendish when he is with you?  Or is he going to live at your house?”  
  
         “How about I let you and Sean decide how that works,” John said, realizing he was going to have to share Sean with Paul’s family, just as Paul was sharing his children with John.  This hadn’t been something that had occurred to John before, and he felt a twinge of regret because he suspected that Sean would prefer to stay at Cavendish, in a house full of young people and Sean’s beloved Linda and her cooking, not to mention the family dogs (Yoko would not allow Sean to have a dog, and John had always preferred cats.)  It was the sacrifice he would have to make to ensure that this whole thing would work.  
  
         Satisfied, James sat back in his chair and indicated by his expression that he had no further questions.  
  
         “Well, that’s that then,” Stella said, getting up.  “I promised to call my friend tonight, so I’m off.”  She sprinted out of the room before anyone could ask her to help with the dishes.  
  
         Mary laughed and said to her mother, “Stella’s an expert in getting out of the housework,” and then she got up and started collecting dessert dishes.  Linda did too.       
  
         James got up and gave first his father and then his mother big hugs, and then hung around – unsure- in John’s vicinity until John turned around and opened his arms.  James gave John a shy hug and then darted out without meeting John’s eyes.  By silent agreement, Paul and John got up and moved to Paul’s study, closing the door firmly behind them.  John collapsed in one of the comfy leather wing chairs, and Paul poured them both a glass of old Irish whiskey.  
  
         “Well,” John said with a huge sigh after taking his first sip.  “ _That_ was something!”    
  
         Paul’s responding laugh was full of well-earned irony.  “I’m gonna need at least 3 hits of whiskey tonight,” he said.  
  
         “I’ve never witnessed anything like that, Paul.  I thought when you said a family meeting you meant that you and Linda were going to lay down the law.  I didn’t realize your kids would have all these questions and opinions, and that you would both listen to them and give them so much weight.”  
  
         “Do you think it is a bad way to go about it?” Paul asked wearily, expecting criticism.  
  
         “No!  I think it is _fantastic!_ I’m really impressed with you and Linda, honestly.”  John’s face was full of pure admiration, and Paul’s stress started seeping out of him and his face slowly relaxed.  
         
         “Of course," Paul said, "in the end, Linda and I make the decisions, and not all the kids are happy with all of the decisions we make.  But they all have a _voice._ They all get to say their piece, and we want it to be in an atmosphere of safety and respect, so we have to listen to their opinions, and treat them with respect, even if it is uncomfortable for us.”  
  
          “Is that how it was in your family growing up, or Linda’s?”  
  
         Paul laughed.  “No, in my family it was a benign dictatorship.  My mum made most of the decisions, I suspect, but Dad was always the one who told us what they were.  We weren’t consulted before decisions were made, but we did have meetings where they explained what their decisions were – like when we were going to move to a new home, for example.  And Linda’s family was a dictatorship – not even a benign one.  Lew Eastman made the decisions, and everyone lived by them.”  
  
         “Where did you learn how to do this, then?” John asked, genuinely curious.  
  
         “It was just something that we started doing, John, but it is mostly Linda’s influence.  I tended to want to make decisions – you know how I am…”  
  
         John chuckled and took a timely sip of whiskey to avoid making a snarky comment.  
  
         “But Linda is such a fair, direct person.  She always saw our children as people.  Maybe they were small, and even dependent upon us to survive, but she always saw them as separate and distinct personalities, separate from us and also from each other.  I just picked that attitude up from her.  You saw her at work in this meeting.  That’s how she has always been.”  
  
         “She was awesome,” John said.  “You’d think she had no reservations about it herself, although I know that isn’t true.”  
  
         “We’ve all come a long way since this all started John,” Paul commented.  “We’ve all three had reservations and problems, and independently or together we’ve figured them out.  I think she has come to terms with her issues, and they no longer bother her as much as they used to.”  
  
         “Well, I’m still not 100% sure where I stand,” John said honestly.  “But at least I’m not a big bloody secret anymore.”  
  
         Paul looked sharply at John.  “None of us are 100% sure where we stand, John.  We’re all kind of standing here wondering what the hell comes next.  We’ll just have to fake our way through it.”  
  
         John laughed at Paul.  “Suddenly you’re Mr. Reasonable! What happened to the character from the Victorian play?”  
  
         “He’s still here, John, so don’t get too excited.  I don’t ever want to talk about or display our sex life in front of my children.  That just is not going to ever happen.  That is just too much selfishness on my part.  I hope you’ll be okay with that.”  
  
         “I guess I’ll have to,” John responded.  
  
         “And that means when my kids are around, you’re not going to waltz around with only your bathrobe on,” Paul announced, recalling the embarrassing moment in the kitchen at Cavendish when Mary had walked in on their explicit argument, with John in a short robe.  “It’s okay for me to do it around Linda, because I’m their dad.  But not you.”  
  
         “We’ll see about that,” John said back, but with a warm wink.  “I have faith I’ll loosen you up one of these days…”  
  
         “Ha!” The sound out of Paul’s mouth was an explosive ejaculation.  “I think you’ve already ‘loosened me up’ as much as possible, luv…”  
  
         “So is it my turn tonight?” John asked flirtatiously.  “I’ve been very patient.  And I want to prove to you there is still some ‘loosening up’ to be done!”  
  
         “Not in the same house…”  
  
         “ _Yes_ , in the same house, Paul.  But in our room.  With the door locked.  And we’ll be quiet.  And I’ll dress properly when I leave the room.  But the whole point of this exercise was to bring our relationship out in to the open at least in our homes, and this is something you’re just going to have to give on.”  
  
         Paul had that stubborn look around his mouth that John had learned to dread, but this time he wasn’t going to let it defeat him.  
  
         “Face it Pud.  You’re outnumbered now.  You’ll just have to surrender to the inevitable.  Which reminds me… let’s go to bed so I can make my point more literally…”    


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, let me remember to thank gdelghiblueeyes for his invaluable assistance on the concert tour sections. His suggestions and his advice truly helped me, and I will be calling on him time and time again as the concert tour progresses.
> 
> I do have some questions to pose to you readers.
> 
> 1) If Paul and John were to appear in a concert tour circa 1988/89, what songs would you want to hear them do / re-imagine?
> 
> 2) Do you think they should use their solo work in addition to the Beatles work, or focus on the work they wrote together, both in the Beatles, and in Last Year's Echo?
> 
> 3) In this AU, do you think Paul would/would not take his wife and son along? What do you think he should do?
> 
> I look forward to hearing your various responses, which will probably all disagree with each other, which I find hilarious and exhilarating!
> 
> I hope you enjoy it.

         Paul had spent several hours listening to potential band members, and was exhausted.  Everyone who had been short-listed to audition was an outstanding musician, so Paul was looking for more:  multi-instrument skills, the ability to sing back up vocals, flexibility in outlook, reliable, no overweening egos, and meticulous professionalism.  He also was looking for personalities that he and John could tolerate for hours every day, for months on end.   Paul knew that he was going to be easier to please than John was.  John had instant negative reactions to people, and Paul was trying to weed out the types that would piss off John, and narrow the choices down to a manageable few for John to audition.  
  
         This is how Paul had approached all of the preparations for the concert tour.   While of course the first tranche of decisions had been made by the management team, Paul had further reduced each of the decisions down to a handful of alternatives any one of which John would find acceptable, and then let John make the final decision.  This was just an extension of what he used to do in the Beatles after Epstein’s death, only then he had to weed out the things that would annoy _three_ people instead of just John.  Not that any of them ever understood or appreciated how much work and thought this had taken Paul.  Rather, they more or less accepted his decisions without comment, after he had researched the hell out of them, and if the decision went bad they would all point at him and say it was his fault.  Paul would always wipe his mind clean when he got to this bitter level.  He didn’t want to carry that poison with him the rest of his life, but it sometimes seemed to sneak up on him anyway.  
  
         Because their manager had hired the booking agents, who were already booking the venues starting in August, Paul had a week or so to audition the musicians, four weeks to get a band into shape, and then another three weeks of full on rehearsals where John would be fully involved.  It was a very short time span, and Paul worried that it wouldn’t be enough.   Paul had felt compelled to limit the prep period so that John would not have to spend too much time rehearsing, because otherwise he might get frustrated, stop cooperating, and move into passive aggressive land.  Lord knows _that_ had happened before back in the day.  This decision of course collapsed the amount of time the stage director had to put together the hardware and stagecraft for the show, the booking agents to book the venues, and the crew to be assembled.  Paul could see the unhappy faces around him, but his main concern was to keep John motivated and interested.   And, as usual, to keep John happy, Paul felt as though he was walking a kind of tightrope, not only at work, but also at home.  
  
         When he got home to Cavendish each evening to see his family and have dinner with Linda, John was always there, laughing and joking in the kitchen with Linda – keeping her company while she cooked, and telling her wicked jokes.  Paul had begun to notice that Linda and John were developing a very warm friendship – with their own little private jokes and glances - and he wouldn’t have been human if this didn’t bother him a little.  Mary and Stella really enjoyed John’s company – Stella especially interacted with John as though he was a seriously cool much older brother - and even James had gotten used to John’s tricky aura, and was opening up a little.  Paul worried about losing the adoration of his children.  Of course, when Paul did arrive home, they all appeared to be delighted, and showered him with love and attention, but he was starting to feel just a little displaced as the man of the house with John around so frequently.  
  
         They were still working on their permanent sleeping arrangements.  The problem was, as much as John loved the Maida Vale townhouse, living there with Paul was not an option now that the paparazzi had discovered it.  There were no private entrances – everything was open to the street or the mews.  Consequently, John and Paul had decided to sell the townhouse, and find a separate home for them near Cavendish that had private entrances.  They would use a straw buyer so their names would not be associated with the title.  In the meantime, John spent about half his nights in Cavendish, and half his nights alone at Maida Vale.  They had decided John had to appear to be staying at Maida Vale alone because they didn’t want the press to catch on to the fact that John was spending so much time with Paul and his family.  
  
         Their relationship was never going to be easy.  This is the bottom line that Paul had finally accepted.  It was always going to be a series of compromises, and each of them – all three of them – would feel left out or put out at times.  Three was in fact the loneliest number - much more so than one.  John felt jealous of Paul’s relationship with Linda.  Linda felt jealous of Paul’s relationship with John.  And now Paul was beginning to feel jealous of John’s friendship with Linda.  It was a bubbling cauldron, just waiting to boil over.   And to make matters worse, the paparazzi had not really backed off.  There was always a determined one or two outside Maida Vale and outside Cavendish.  It made everything far trickier than it had been before the release of their album.  Paul had begun to feel that working together again had been a terrible mistake.  But it had gone this far, and there was no pulling back now.  For this reason, he was relieved he had all the preparation work for the concert tour to concentrate on.  It was a significant distraction at a time when he really needed one.   
  


*****

     
         John had been deeply moved by watching the McCartney clan in action.  It had started him thinking about his own two sons, and how he had taken it for granted that they would just sail through the news that their father had a male lover as if it were a placid summer’s day on a clear blue lake.  His conscience had begun to bother him.  Usually when his conscience came a knockin’ John found ways to ignore it, but this particular intrusion was impossible to ignore.  He had thought about sharing his concerns with Linda, and getting her input, but had shied away mainly because he didn’t want to expose to her his less than ideal parenting techniques.  He had become totally in awe of Linda’s parenting skills, to the point where he was developing a bit of a complex on the subject.  
  
         So, instead, he had finally decided to discuss it with Fiona.  After his disclosure to her of his relationship with Paul, he had avoided that subject in his therapy sessions.  Fiona was clearly hiding her frustration with his avoidance tactics, but John had regretted his earlier rash behavior and had refused to be moved by her attempts to draw him out on the subject.  However, now he had a subject related to his relationship with Paul that he needed to talk with her about:  his sons.  She was an objective third party, and he knew she would not react emotionally, as Paul would, if he raised the concerns he had about Julian and Sean.  
  
         So on a fine Thursday afternoon, John settled down with Fiona and a cup of hot tea, and began to unload the troubled thoughts weighing on his mind.  
  
         “How was your week?”  Fiona asked.  
  
         “Okay,” John said, mulling over his options on how to raise the subject he wanted to discuss.  “I’ve spent a lot of time with Paul’s family lately.”  
  
         Fiona was surprised to hear John suddenly mention Paul’s name.  He had steadfastly refused to mention the man for the past three weeks – ever since he had disclosed that Paul was his lover.  While this had been frustrating on one level, Fiona understood that John had taken a huge leap of faith discussing the relationship with her at all, and his natural reaction to that would be to pull himself back to safety before gathering the nerve to poke his nose out of the cave again.  Consequently, she tried to reflect a neutral mien to John.  “Oh?” she responded.  
  
         “Yeah.  Me and Paul, and Linda, we sat down with their kids and we talked about everything.”  John was sitting forward in his seat, bent over at the waist, and looking down at his shoes.  
  
         “How did that go?” Fiona asked in a calm voice.  
  
         “It went surprisingly well,” John said honestly.  “But the thing is, I’m seeing all the snags that I didn’t see before.  I’m beginning to understand why Paul is so uptight about it all.”  
  
         Fiona waited a beat or two before asking in a sanguine voice, “How so?”  
  
         “Well, his two kids still in school – they’ve been taunted about it, and are worried about their mother.  And his oldest daughter, apparently she had a kind of breakdown over it, and she’s not really talking to them right now.  The only one who is taking it in stride is the middle daughter - the one I have been spending the most time with.  I had no idea how complicated it all was until I heard firsthand what they are all going through.”  
  
         “What specifically is worrying you about it?”  
  
         “Truthfully, I don’t know for sure.  I just feel a sense of foreboding, if that makes any sense.”  
  
         “I think it makes sense,” Fiona said softly.  
  
         “At the moment, I seem to be worried the most about… _my_ sons.”  John sighed after he said it.  He wasn’t sure if it was out of fear or relief.  Maybe both.  
  
         “Your sons?”  Fiona echoed.  
  
         “I told them about me and Paul.  I mean, Sean has known for years, because he has lived with us off and on, but Julian – I told him about it when we were in Montserrat, and I haven’t seen or spoken to him since.  I kind of thought it was a no-brainer, but now I’m not so sure.”  
  
         “’A no-brainer?’”  Fiona echoed.  
  
         “The way I told Julian about it, I didn’t see it from his point of view,” John admitted, although his voice was laced with irritation that he had to explain.  “I just blurted it out about me and Paul, and didn’t stop to assess Julian’s reaction.”  
  
         “Is it Julian you’re most worried about?”  
  
         “I guess so…. _yes_ , although I didn’t realize that until now.  Sean has lived with me and Paul; he adores Paul.  And his mother has surrounded herself with gay men, and he is very enlightened on a human level about people who make different choices.  But Julian…” John’s voice tailed off, and for several moments there was silence.  
  
         “But Julian what?”  Fiona finally prompted.  
  
         “It hadn’t occurred to me before that maybe this information would be difficult, or unwelcome, to him.”  
  
         “And now it has?”  Fiona’s eyes met John’s eyes, and in them she saw a flicker of guilt.  “John, you’re in love with someone.  You didn’t do it to hurt anyone.  Of course, that doesn’t mean others might not be hurt by it, but you shouldn’t have to walk away from someone you love simply because your son has a hard time accepting it.”  
  
         John chuckled ironically.  “I have no intention of walking away from Paul.  But I do feel bad about Julian.  I don’t know how to approach him.  I’d like to make sure he is dealing with it.  I’d feel terrible if he went off the rails because of my choices.”  
  
         “So, it seems to me that you should sit down and talk to him about it - just the two of you.  And _he_ should be doing most of the talking.”  Fiona was trying to catch John’s eyes, but again they were studying his shoes.  
  
         Finally, John spoke.  “How do I do it?”  
  
         “You call him up and invite him for dinner, and you talk to him.  He is an adult now, isn’t he?”  
  
         “Yeah.”  
  
         “So, treat him like an adult, and listen with an open mind and with respect to what he says, no matter what it is.”  
  
         John was silent again, and finally nodded. This was what Paul and Linda did with their children all the time.  They even made it look easy.  Abruptly, he changed the subject.  “And Sean.  I’ve assumed he’s okay with it, but I’m not really sure.  Sean has a tendency to protect me.  He doesn’t tell me when he is sad, because he knows it bothers me so much.”  
  
         “You need to reassure him that you are fine, and that nothing he says can hurt you.  You _are_ the father, after all.”  John had finally met her eyes, and he saw that she meant business.  Her eyes were all but telling him to step up and carry through.  He smiled at her, and she relented, favoring him with a half-smile.  
  


*****

     
         The musicians had been chosen, but not without hitting a few potholes at the wrong speed.  Paul had wanted to have a real band around him, and preferred session musicians who had also been band members, like Hamish Stuart, a tall platinum-haired Scotsman late of the Average White Band, who played a panoply of guitars, including back up bass.  But John wanted hard core session musicians, and preferred the ones he used in the early ‘70s. They argued names back and forth, but eventually settled on two guitarists, one that Paul wanted, Robbie McIntosh, just having left The Pretenders,  and one that John had worked with before, Hugh McCracken.  They would handle lead, back up rhythm and back up bass guitars.  
  
         Paul “Wix” Wickens, puckish and multi-talented, playing keyboards, was an instant favorite of both men, and they even asked him to act as music director.   In addition, John wanted a sax player, and plumped for Bobby Keys, who worked the Stones’s tours.  Turned out he was free, and Paul agreed.  
     
         The real kerfuffle happened when Paul heard that John wanted to use Jim Keltner as drummer.  Paul had a strong negative reaction to that because Keltner had played drums for John Lennon, Yoko Ono, George Harrison and Ringo Starr all through the early ‘70s, at a time when his former friends were treating him like crap.  Paul could only _imagine_ some of the insults Keltner would have heard about him in those sessions, and he didn’t want to work with the man.  
  
         “You’re being ridiculous, Paul,” John argued in his old insensitive way.  “Keltner’s a professional, he’s not going to let that history affect him.  When you were on your own, you often surrounded yourself with musicians who weren’t as talented as you.  You need to use better musicians if you’re going to work with me.”  
  
         “Well, then, why don’t we use Geoff Emerick as the sound engineer?” Paul asked in a huffy voice.  He had been stung  by John’s insulting comment.  
  
         “Geoff’s your _pet_!  He patronizes me!”  John shouted.  
  
         “But he’s a total professional, and he’s not going to let that history affect him.”  Paul said in a mimicking voice, standing toe to toe with John.  John blinked.  
  
         “I get your point, but you’re wrong about Jim.  He’s the best.”  
  
         “I don’t want to start fresh by opening up old wounds,” Paul said firmly.  
  
         Ultimately they settled on an experienced British session musician for drums and percussion, Chris Whitton, although John grumbled under his breath about it for weeks.  Paul, on the other hand, felt very good about the selections, and although he and John had suffered their first serious artistic difference, they had weathered it well.  Neither seemed to hold it against the other in a serious way.  Paul began to hope that this meant they were going to forge a new _modus operandi_ in this new iteration of their partnership.  
        
         In any case, it was time to put the playlist together - or at least to _start_ to do so.  Back in the Beatles years, all four of them would just jump in and suggest titles, and in the end it would be John and Paul sitting down arranging the final choices and order.  But the Beatles had been playing together for ages, and knew all their material dead to rights (even having originated most of it), so it wasn’t ever a difficult or time-consuming task.  This time it would be different.   Would they include Beatles music?  If so – how much and which ones?  And what about the old rock’ n ’roll songs?  And – here’s where it got really touchy – Wings songs?  And John’s solo work with Yoko?  Should they just ignore all that and pretend like the ‘70s didn’t happen?  You know, like the shower scene from _Dallas?_ The more Paul thought about it, the more he worried about all the tip toeing he was going to have to do in order not to set John off.   He couldn’t put the discussion off any longer, though, and so he decided to approach the subject in the kitchen at Cavendish, sitting at the big family table, while Linda was cooking.  Paul figured that she could act as balm whenever he and John burned each other.  
  
         “I’ve got an idea about choosing the playlist,” Paul said calmly after filling in a very vaguely interested John with the status of the tour preparations.  
  
         “Ummm?” John asked.  He was in a pleasant mood, which was a good thing.  But he lacked any true enthusiasm for the subject, Paul could plainly see.  
  
         Paul continued despite the lack of enthusiasm.  “Nowadays, the shows usually go about 2 hours and 50 minutes, something like that,” Paul started, “so we’ll need about 34, 35 songs…”  
  
         “ _What???”_ John’s reaction was overdone.  
  
         “John, don’t tell me you don’t know this.  You must’ve gone to some rock shows in the last 20 years.”  
  
         “Not that many,” John said.  “I’m trying to think.  Nope.  I really haven’t gone to any.  Not to sit all the way through.”  
  
         “That’s insane!”  Paul couldn’t help himself.  He was thoroughly shocked by this.  He himself had gone to hundreds of concerts by other artists, and nightclub acts, and had thoroughly enjoyed it all.  He couldn’t imagine a musician who didn’t do likewise.  
  
         John shrugged, unaffected by Paul’s reaction.  “I never really enjoyed listening to other people play – I always preferred to play myself.”  
  
         “Except when you don’t,” Paul said, and then cursed himself for the cut.  He smiled belatedly to show _no hard feelings_.  
  
           “But seriously, Paul, you don’t think we have to do a 3 hour show, do you?  People will come to see us anyway.”  
  
         Paul was dumbfounded.  Here they hadn’t even _gotten_ to the fucking playlist, and he’d already hit a major roadblock!  He finally found his voice.  “Yes, John, I do believe we need to do _at least_ 2 ½ hours, and closer to 3 hours.  That is what people expect nowadays when they buy a ticket.  And there is little point to putting up major sets and sound systems in large arenas, just to play a short concert.  Can’t afford to pay for the tour without a full on rock show, for one thing.”   Paul was watching John’s face, thoroughly spooked by John’s willful ignorance and offhand attitude towards what went in to making a successful rock show.   He was hoping against hope that John was having him on, and that soon he would be seeing the mischievous glint in John’s eye.  
  
         “We do get a rest in the middle, don’t we?”  John asked, apparently conceding the 3-hour concert duration point for the time being.  
  
         Silence.  Paul stared at him.  “No, John, you play straight through.”  Things were going from bad to worse.  
  
         John’s expression reflected utter outrage.  “That’s _barbaric_!” he declared.  
  
         Both men realized at the same time that Linda was laughing in the background.  
  
         “What’s so funny?” John growled.  
  
         “You are, John,” Linda said, when she was able to regain her composure.  “I can’t believe all this fuss.  There I was – pregnant with small babies, and not even really a musician, with people insulting me left and right – and _I_ didn’t carry on like this!”  
  
         That shut John up for a good minute or two.  This gave Paul a chance to forge ahead.  “So –my idea – I thought we should each make a list of 25 songs we’d like to consider doing.  Just pick whatever songs hit your fancy, and then we’ll compare lists, and we’ll cut the lists down to a total of 40 that we both agree to, and then we can play 34 out of the 40 for each show.  Gives us a little variety from show to show.  What do you think?”  
  
         John was still digesting the horrifying news about the length of the show, so he wasn’t really concentrating when he agreed to Paul’s suggestion.  Of course, John hardly cared, because he’d most likely not get around to making a list at all, and Paul would end up doing all the work.  That way all John would have to do was cross off all the songs he didn’t like, and add some he did.  John didn’t see anything wrong with this approach, and in truth, Paul could be a bossy twat at times, and could badger a soul until he was ready to explode.  So, rather than say, _No, Paul, I don’t want to sit down and write out a list of 25 songs_ , John found it easier to say, _Yes, whatever you think, Paul,_ and then just do what he was going to do all along anyway.    
  
        Of course, Paul wasn’t stupid.  He had figured out that this was John’s go-to strategy by 1966, and Paul had even given it a name: “reverse _fait accomplis._ ” Paul didn’t have a strong feeling that he even had John’s _attention,_ much less his agreement to his plan.  It wasn’t as if – back in the ‘sixties – Paul hadn’t integrated John’s passive aggressive tendencies at a cellular level; in fact, he did.  So he had developed his own strategies to counteract John’s.  As he sat in the kitchen staring in to his coffee cup (having lost John’s attention entirely), Paul figured he’d probably end up writing a full list of 40 songs, and including a whole bunch of his own songs, and not many of John’s, and adding songs that he knew John _despised_ , and then pretending to be all huffy when John started slashing at the list, and making his own strenuous revisions.  Of course, this was what he wished John would just do to begin with, but Paul feared that maybe their partnership had not progressed beyond this passive-aggressive, aggressive-aggressive stage.  Time would tell if John had matured to the point where he would be willing to carry at least _some_ of the baggage without having to be goaded into it.  Paul was nothing if not ever hopeful.  
  


*****

  
       “Julian, hello, it’s your dad,” John said awkwardly into the phone.  It was one of his solo nights at Maida Vale, and he had actually made himself drink three fingers of whiskey before he had sufficient courage to pick up the phone and call his own son.  
  
         “ _Dad_?”  Julian’s voice was the stuff of pure surprise.  
  
         John winced at this.  Julian shouldn’t be totally shocked to receive a phone call from his own father.  “Yeah, thought I’d call and see how you’re doing.  Is this a good time?”  
  
         “Is everything okay?”  Julian’s voice sounded extremely stressed.  
  
         This was another rebuke to John.  His own son only expected to hear from him if something was wrong. “Yes, yes, everything’s cool,” John said reassuringly.  
  
         “Oh, good, you had me worried there,” Julian said, taking a deep breath, and then waiting.  
  
         John heard the expectant silence.  “I was thinking you and I could have dinner together – just the two of us,” John said shyly.  
  
         “Is Paul okay? Is there something wrong with you and Paul?”  Julian’s voice reverted to the higher register with this new alarm.  
  
         “No, no – everything’s great between me and Paul.  He’s as busy as ever on this fucking concert tour.  You wouldn’t believe.  Linda and I were thinking we’d have to put on a strip tease together to get his atten… _er_ , yeah, everything’s fine.”  
  
         _That_ was an earful, Julian thought.  But it made him smile a little - the image that is.  Of his father and Linda doing a desperate but unsuccessful strip tease in the foreground, while Paul – in the background - was bent over a desk, furiously rechecking his sums.   Julian chuckled.  
  
         John heard the chuckle and was relieved.  _What’s wrong with me?_ John asked himself harshly.  _Why can’t I talk like a normal father to my son_?  “So, what do you think – about having dinner with me?”  
  
         “I’d like that,” Julian said, with a little trepidation.  He was still suspicious and wondering what was up his father’s sleeve.  His father had never been given to these impromptu evenings together, and so Julian didn’t trust it.  
  
         “Are you busy tonight?”  John asked, holding his breath and expecting to get rejected.  
  
         Julian had to think furiously for a minute about what could be so important that it required his presence _tonight_ , but he found the _nous_ to say, “Tonight’s good.”  
  
         John heaved an enormous sigh of relief, and had no idea that Julian heard it on the other end, and was touched by it.  “Come to Maida Vale – you have the address, yes?  And I’ll call a restaurant and have them deliver us dinner.  That way we can have a private time together.”  
  
         Julian’s mind reverted to a concern about the Paul relationship.  Something must be wrong with it for his father to be so desperate as to reach out to _him_.  But still, it was a golden opportunity to be there for his father – something he’d never been asked to do before – so there was no way he was not going to grab at the chance.  
  


*****

  
  
      Paul was alone with Linda.  They were curled up with each other on a sofa in the sitting room.  James was in his room listening to head banging music, and Mary and Stella were out with friends.  It was John’s night to be at Maida Vale.  Paul was glad to have Linda to himself.  
  
         “Lin,” he assayed, “it seems you and John have developed quite the friendship.”  He hoped his voice sounded cheerful and accepting.  
  
         Linda leaned away from his shoulder to meet his eye.  “Jealous?” she teased.  
  
         “No,” Paul lied.  “Relieved.”  
  
         Linda’s face danced with mischief.  “If you say so,” she finally murmured, and then leant her head on Paul’s shoulder again.  
  
         “Tell me the truth, babe.  Does it bother you when I…well, when I’m here with John and…”  
  
         “And you’re having sex in the top floor room?” Linda finished it for him, in point blank style.  
  
         Paul was stilled by this.  “Of course it bothers you,” he said softly, feeling ashamed that he had even brought the subject up.  
  
         Linda was quiet for a while as she weighed her words.  “It was easier for me not to think about it when you weren’t in the same house with me,” she finally said.  “But I knew this was going to be difficult, and it is early days.  Let’s see how it works out over time.”  
  
         It was Paul’s turn to be quiet for a long while.  “I’m not comfortable with it at all, Lin,” he finally said.  “I didn’t think I had a choice, because I’d gotten myself backed into this corner by the press on one side, John’s demands on this side, and you and the family on the other side.   I am trying to accept it, but it just feels wrong to me.”  
  
         Linda remained quiet, allowing Paul to further process his thoughts.  
  
         Paul finally continued.  “I’m going to tell John that as soon as we find a home with more private access, I don’t want him spending nights here any more.  I’d rather go back and forth, and not feel so tense all the time.  What do you think about that?”  
  
         Very privately, Linda was relieved.  She had never really wanted her husband to be having sex with someone else under her own roof.  And she had begun to suspect that John didn’t find it ideal, either, because it cramped his outré style so much.  It would be best for everyone.  But what she said was, “You should speak up and say to him – and to me – what you really feel and tell us what you really want.  He and I do it to you all the time.  You try too hard to please us, and to be the person you think we want you to be.  If you don’t like this set up, then by all means you need to speak up and express it and we’ll all just have to find another solution.”  
  


*****

     
        
         At that exact moment, Julian was sitting down with his father for a meal featuring meat.  John tended to go off the vegetarian reservation as soon as Paul’s back was turned.  Their pre-dinner conversation had been limited to stilted small talk, and John explaining (inaccurately) whatever information about the tour preparations he could remember hearing from Paul.  But once the meal was served, and they began to eat, John felt pressure to open the difficult subject.  
  
         “I wanted to talk to you about Paul and me,” John said.  
  
         Julian looked up.  _Here it comes.  There is trouble in paradise,_ Julian thought.  
  
         “It has finally dawned on me – I can be slow sometimes – that the way I broke the news to you was, well, a little abrupt, and not very sensitive.”  John looked up to meet Julian’s eyes.  Julian put his fork down, and was listening with wide eyes.  “I’m sorry about that, I really am,” John said sincerely.  John felt his eyes tearing up, and managed to stop that, but not before Julian caught sight of the glistens, and then Julian’s eyes watered up too.  
  
         “It’s okay, Dad.  I understand,” he said softly.  
  
         “You shouldn’t have to ‘understand’,” John said in response.  “I should have considered your feelings in the matter.”  
  
         “Well, the thing is, I had strongly suspected it ever since you bought this place,” Julian gestured to the walls of Maida Vale, “and Paul spent half his time here.  In the same bedroom.”  
  
         John put his fork down now.  “Did it bother you – realizing that?  You were – how old when you figured this out?”  
  
         “Twenty-one,” Julian said softly.  
  
         John’s mind floated back to age 21.  “That’s how old I was, when your mum got pregnant with you.”  
        
         Julian said nothing, but kept watching his father’s face.  
  
         John came back to the present.  “Did it bother you, Julian?”  This time John’s eyes – through his heavy spectacles - were boring into Julian’s.  
  
         Julian didn’t know what to say.  He supposed “the truth” is always a good idea, but his relationship was his father was tentative at best, and he feared that honesty would not be the best policy in this situation.  He decided to hedge.  “I just made myself not think about it,” Julian said.  “It was a bit confusing, because it seemed to me that Paul really loved Linda, so I wasn’t really clear what it was all about.”  
  
         “Did the…homosexuality…bother you at all?” John asked.  
  
         To Julian, it felt as though John was poking where it hurt.  “I didn’t understand it,” was all Julian could say, because he had learned early on that his father’s moods were not trustworthy.  
  
         “And now?”  John asked, mimicking Fiona’s tactics.  
  
         “Well, now I have friends who are gay.  I understand it now.”  This was true as far as it went.  It was one thing to have friends who are gay.  It was another to have a father who was in love with a man, who was married to someone else and had a family.  
  
         John thought about Julian’s response, instead of rushing into a response.  That was a new mature level for him, although he didn’t realize it at the time.  “So, has this news affected you?  I mean, is it something that is embarrassing or difficult for you?”  
  
         It had finally begun to dawn on Julian that possibly his father was actually concerned about _him_ , and had no other agenda.  This was such a revolutionary thought that Julian wasn’t sure he could trust it.  Should he go out on a limb and trust that this olive branch was real?  If he did believe in it, he could be badly disillusioned.  But he might find that he had reached at least level one in an intimate relationship with his father.  Julian’s distrust won out at first.  
  
         “Is this about the tabloid stuff they’ve been publishing?  Are you afraid I’ll tell someone the truth?”  Julian’s expression was tentative and fearful, and in direct contradiction to his strong words, which on their own would have sounded accusatory.  
  
         John was taken aback by this, but, studying Julian’s anxious face, he schooled his expression.  “Well, only to the extent that, if you find it difficult to have to deal with the tabloid rumors, I’d like you to share that with me.  Maybe I can help.”  
  
         “No one asks me about it – none of my friends, no reporters.  I don’t talk about it, and they don’t ask me.”  Julian was trying to hide his deep disappointment.  Here he thought his father was reaching out to him, but apparently he was only trying to pump him for what he might have said to others, or the press.  
  
         John didn’t know what had gone wrong, but he felt Julian’s shutdown even as it was happening.   John felt lost at sea.  What could he do to close that breach?  “Julian,” he finally said, “I don’t care about myself.  I’m not worried about myself.  I can take of myself.  I just feel bad if I have put you in a difficult situation again by my choices, and wanted to talk to you about it.”  
  
         Julian wasn’t sure what to think of that, or what his father wanted.  What choices?  _Paul?_ “Dad, it’s okay, I love Paul.  I’ve always loved Paul.  He was always there for me.”   
  
         “But, I mean, I want you to feel like you can tell me the truth,” John said.  His voice was actually plaintive.  
  
         Julian was hopelessly confused.  He couldn’t believe in John Lennon, Father, so he was stuck with his prejudiced view of John Lennon, Egoist.   The only way to end this train wreck of a conversation was to give John what he apparently wanted:  “Of course, Dad, of course I will.  But right now I’m fine.”  


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian reaches out to Paul, and John surprises the heck out of Paul - in more ways than one.

       John had the evening alone to himself in Maida Vale, and was bored out of his mind.  This led him into rethinking his lack of interest in the playlist for the concert.  He had actually begun to envision what kind of message he wanted to convey with this tour.  It would be a wasted opportunity if all they did was to play their greatest Beatle hits.  He felt as though they had to reach deeper than that, and mix in some less user-friendly songs along with some crowd favorites.  To that end, and to his own considerable surprise, he found himself sitting down and working on a song list.  The first thing he had to decide on within himself was whether he was going to insist on some of his solo songs being performed.  Many of them reeked of Yoko, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to revisit them for that reason, and he doubted very much that Paul would want anything to do with them.  But some of them went to the heart of who he was, and what he had gone through when separated from Paul, and from England, and from everything and everyone he had known Before Yoko.  
  
         For example, of course they would have to do _Give Peace a Chance,_ and _Instant Karma_.  Those were non-debatable.  But what about more controversial choices, like _Mother_ and _Cold Turkey_?  John wondered if Paul would stick in his heels on those.  Well, John was going to put them on his list, and let Paul try to justify removing them.  Other songs he knew he had to add because he had written them with Paul in mind:  _Bless You, Jealous Guy, (Just Like) Starting Over, Losing You_ , and _It’s So Hard_.  Then there were the political songs that he wanted to sing:  _Gimme Some Truth, I Found Out_ , _Crippled Inside, and Woman is the Nigger of the World_.  Would Paul freak out if he tried to include any of those?   
  
         Beatles songs were another problem altogether.  Some of the songs that meant the most to John had been bastardized in the recording process.  For example, Richard Lester, the director of the Beatles movies, had insisted upon increasing the tempo of John’s song, ‘ _Help’_ , and naming the second movie after it.   But John’s song had been a sincere lament, and he had felt steamrolled by that experience.  He definitely wanted to do ‘ _Help_ ’, but do it _his_ way.  Honestly, they all must have been deaf, dumb and blind not to see the trouble he was in:  “ _Help”, “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away”, “I’m a Loser”_ , _“Nowhere Man_ ” and “ _Norwegian Wood_ ” had all been written by John within a year of each other – 1965.  That was before John had found that certain drugs could mask his anxiety and depression.  (Too bad the drugs also killed his will to create.)  John wanted to do these songs, but sing the lyrics the way he actually wrote them, instead of the way they recorded them, but he knew he could not. To change the gender back to the original would only expose the fact that he had been writing about a male lover, and that would only end up pointing the finger at Paul.   The more he thought about it, the less he wanted to sing those songs at all until he could sing them with their true lyrics, openly and with pride.  Well, maybe “ _Nowhere Man”_ …  
  
         So back to the drawing board…  
  


*****

  
  
       Julian had been spooked by his meeting with his father, and was worried.   He wanted to know what was going on, but knew he could never approach his father for more explanation.  So one evening he called Paul at the Cavendish number, hoping Paul was home.  Stella answered the phone, but soon had corralled her father, and before Julian had time to second-guess himself Paul was on the line.  
  
         “Jules!” Paul greeted him – as only Paul could greet him.  Julian always felt warm and secure when he heard Paul’s voice.  “It’s great to hear from you!  What’s up?”  
  
         “I had a funny conversation with my dad, and I don’t know what to make of it,” Julian stammered out, afraid if he didn’t just blurt it out he would lose his nerve.  
  
         “What kind of funny conversation?” Paul asked.  
  
         “It’s kind of personal.  I can’t talk about it over the phone.”  
  
         Paul’s mood changed from light and airy to concerned.  “Are you okay, son?”  He asked in a very father-like voice.  
  
         “Yes, I just wondered if you had some time to talk to me privately,” Julian said in a small voice.  He knew Paul was a very busy man with a lot of demands on his time, so he felt insecure about asking for any.  
  
         “Yes, of course.  Is it urgent?  If you want to come over now, we can chat in my study,” Paul offered.  
  
         “I don’t like to intrude.  It must be dinnertime.”  Julian had barely finished his comment before he heard Paul’s bark of laughter.  
  
         “Linda will _kill_ me if I don’t invite you to dinner first!  Nothing she likes more than feeding the people she loves!”  
  
         Again, Julian felt warm and secure.  “Well, if it isn’t too much trouble…”  
  
         “Get your bum over here, Jules,” Paul chuckled.  “We don’t stand on ceremony.  You won’t escape without a full meal, that I can guarantee you.”  
  
         “But…” Julian thought of something.  
  
         “Yes?”  Paul asked.  
  
         “Is my dad there?”  
  
         Paul was briefly silent.  “No, he’s at Maida Vale tonight.”  Paul was worried.  Was there a serious problem between John and Julian?  
  
         “Ok, so I’ll leave right away.  I’ve got my motorbike.  See you in a half hour.”  Julian hung up, and quickly went to change his clothes, since he didn’t want to show up in Linda’s kitchen looking like a homeless person.  (It didn’t occur to him that Linda had teenagers and young adults for children, and was used to seeing young people looking like homeless persons.)   
  


*****

  
  
       _Day In the Life_ , definitely, thought John, and _Strawberry Fields_ , if they could find a way to stage these two songs.  John chuckled to himself:  _If “they” could find a way.  If Paul couldn’t find a way to do a thing, no one could!_ What else?  Once John got started, he was having a difficult time turning the spigot off. _Oh Darling!_ – John wanted to sing that song.  He would have to persuade Paul to let him do it.  Paul had been very prickly about that song in 1969, but John had always assumed it was because the song was about the loss of John’s love, and so Paul had been clearly insulted when John had suggested he sing it.    Maybe now Paul would be less likely to cavil at it.  Of course, they’d have to go down at least 2 keys in order for John to sing it.  And _Here, There and Everywhere_ :  John wanted to sing that one in harmony with Paul.  That might be the best Beatles song ever, in John’s opinion.  _Across the Universe_?  That would be a great concert song.  And _Imagine_ , of course.  Paul might think those two are too alike, and make him choose one.  If so, _Imagine_ , definitely.  _This Boy_ was always fun.  He was sure he and Paul could sing it in 2-part harmony.  Of course, he wouldn’t be able to change the gender, but the song had a certain symmetry to it.  
  
         John put his mind to which of Paul’s songs he wanted to suggest.  Aside from _Here, There and Everywhere_ he thought of _I’ve Got a Feeling_ , _Get Back_ , and – of course – _I Saw Her Standing There._ Sentimentally, ‘ _Til There Was You_ , came to mind.  There was nothing more adorable on the face of the fucking planet than Paul McCartney singing _‘Til There Was You_.  As much grief as John had given Paul over that song, he could listen to it over and over and never get tired of it.  In fact, when Paul used to sing it in concert, it took all of his willpower not to pounce on Paul and insist upon a kiss right there and then.  He doubted whether Paul would choose that song, however.  Too bad.  
  


*****

  
        Julian had been buoyed by the relentless upbeat noise around the McCartney dinner table.   Stella was loud and witty; Mary was dashing back and forth through the kitchen for some unexplained reason, James was droning on about some television show, and Paul was leaning forward being attentive to his son.   Julian watched Paul’s interaction with his son and felt a pang of something – loss?  regret?  jealousy?  It wasn’t strong enough to be any of those things, but reminiscent of them all in an echo-y sort of way.  Linda, meanwhile, had made another hot, stick-to-your-ribs-type meal.  Julian thought it was miraculous she could do this without using meat.  She sat next to Julian and quizzed him about his music, his friends, his flat, his girlfriend.  Periodically Stella would say, “Mum!  Leave him alone!”  She even once turned to Julian and said with an American drawl, “These are my parents for you – always with the third degree!”  Not being American, Julian was not familiar with the derivation of the term, but he knew it had something to do with overly intrusive questioning.  To Julian, though, having two parents who both cared enough to ask intrusive questions was not a negative.  
  
         Afterwards, Paul suggested they drift to his study, where he closed the door and offered Julian a drink.  Julian chose brandy, and Paul chose whiskey.  They sat facing each other in worn but deliciously comfortable leather chairs.  
  
         “So what’s up Jules?”  Paul asked him, after the groundbreaking small talk dried up.  
  
         “A few nights ago, Dad had me over to Maida Vale for dinner,” Julian said.  
  
         “He did? Good for him!”  Paul was pleasantly surprised that John had reached out to Julian.  Strange John hadn’t mentioned it to him, though.  
  
         “I don’t know why he did it, though,” Julian responded.  “He was asking me how I felt about you and him being ‘together’.”  Julian looked and felt deeply uncomfortable having to raise the issue with Paul.  
  
         “Oh?”  Paul had that alert look – the one he got when he wasn’t sure he was going to like what he heard next.  
  
         “He kept asking me if it bothered me, and how it affected me.  I don’t know what he wanted of me.”  
  
         Paul forced himself to say something.  Anything.  “Maybe he meant what he said.”  
  
         “What do you mean?” Julian looked at Paul with a cocked head.  
  
         “Well, he is probably wondering how his choices have affected you, and worries that maybe they have hurt you in some way.”  
  
         “Why all of a sudden?  He never cared before!  There must be something else going on!”  Julian looked quite defensive.  
  
         “Yeah, Jules, I know.  He was not a good parent to you when you were growing up.  Your dad has a lot of brilliant qualities, but when he was young he was just not ready to be a father.  And he didn’t know how.  He didn’t have a father himself, really.”  Paul stopped for a few moments to preview his next thoughts carefully before speaking.  “Then, after he had Sean, he began to see all the ways in which you were shorted by him.  Unfortunately, your dad tends to get defensive when he feels guilty. So, if someone makes him feel guilty, he gets angry at them instead of himself.  He treated me like that too, lots of times.  But I’m thinking that perhaps now he has finally internalized that guilt, and he is wanting to try to salvage your relationship, reach out to you.”  
  
         Julian listened with wide eyes to what Paul had to say.  He felt a tiny little flame of hope inside him, but didn’t want to fan it for fear of putting it out.   “Is that what dad told you?”  Julian asked finally.  
        
         “No, your dad hasn’t talked to me about this, but then we’ve had a lot of distractions going on, and we just don’t get to talk to each other as much as we did before the album release.  It’s all gone crazy.”  
  
         “So you don’t _know_ why my dad is finally reaching out to me.  It’s just a guess on your part?”  Julian’s doubt and disappointment were plain to see.  
  
         Paul sighed.  “It’s a guess, yes, but an educated one.  I know your father better than anyone.  I know his good sides and his bad sides.  You have to love the whole person, Julian, or it’s not love at all.  And there’s a lot to love about your dad if you give him a chance to make it up to you.”  
  
         Julian nodded, but still couldn’t quiet his doubts.  “It’s just that he’s had all this time, and now that it’s become a public thing – the rumors – he suddenly wants to know how I feel about it.  The timing seems a bit off to me.”  
  
         “Well, let’s approach it another way then, Jules.  What do _you_ think he wants?”  Paul leaned forward, his forearms along his thighs, his hands clasped together in between his knees, his face earnest, and his eyes unwavering.  
  
         “I was worried that he was trying to tell me not to talk to anyone about you and him.  That he was thinking I might tell people about it and expose him.”   Julian had finally spit it out.  
  
         Paul leaned back, fully relaxed, and laughed with obvious relief.  “No, Jules, that’s definitely not it!  The only reason he is keeping his mouth shut about it is because _I’m_ so paranoid about it getting out.  I’ve got a wife to worry about, and he doesn’t.  If it were up to him, he wouldn’t lie about it at all.  Your dad has always been somewhat of a rebel.  He _enjoys_ being different, and sticking it to the man.  I can assure you with absolute certainty that whatever his reason is for reaching out to you, it’s _not_ because he is worried about his reputation.”  
  
         It was Paul’s utter certainty, and the body language he exuded, that finally convinced Julian that his suspicions were wrong.   Paul saw the moment when Julian accepted this truth, because it seemed as though Julian’s body language suddenly became lighter and looser.  
  
         “So,” Paul added, “since we know _that_ isn’t the reason, I think we’re kind of left with my assumption – that he is, in his own perhaps flawed way, trying to connect with you.  He wants a relationship with you untainted by the past.  It’s entirely up to you if you want that with him, though.  Do you?”  
  
         Julian met Paul’s eyes, and he could see that Paul was not judging him.  It had been an objective question.  But Julian wasn’t sure of his answer.  
  
         Paul saw that Julian was stuck, and moved to reassure him.  “No one would blame you if you didn’t want to, Jules.  Not me, not your mother, not Linda, and not even your dad.  We’d all understand.  We parents have to _earn_ our children’s love, trust and respect, and John never took the time to earn yours before.  Maybe it is too late now?”  
  
         Finally Julian spoke.  “I have always wanted to be close to my father, but every time it looked like it might happen he would disappear on me again.  If I wasn’t in his presence, it was like I didn’t exist.”  
  
         Paul knew exactly whereof Julian spoke.  He had felt the same way in the ‘70s.  John wanted to completely subsume you, or he wanted nothing to do with you.  It was hard enough to survive that as a friend, partner and lover.  It had to be hellish going through it with your own father.  
  
         “And,” Julian continued, “Also, it seems like I always irritated him.  The way I laughed, the things I needed and wanted.  I could tell he was disappointed in me, that I wasn’t the son he wanted.”  
  
         Paul’s heart ached for Julian.  “It wasn’t _you_ , Jules.  Your dad has come a long way in the last several years, since he’s been going to therapy.  In the ‘70s, he treated _everyone_ like that – even Yoko and Sean.  I’ve seen it myself.   Being close to your father meant putting up with a lot of unprovoked personal attacks.  All of us felt it.  But he has changed so much, he really has.  And even before the therapy, when he was in a _good_ mood, there was no one else you’d want to be with.  So now that he is learning how not to take his frustrations out on other people, he is more and more just this enchanting person to be with.  Why would you deny yourself that pleasure?”  
  
         Julian had listened to Paul with as open a heart as he could muster.  He knew, of course, how mean John had been to and about Paul in the ‘70s, but somehow Julian had always felt that his father really didn’t believe those mean things he said about Paul.  And Julian had turned out to be correct about that.  So wasn’t it possible that his father loved him despite the things he had said in the past?  
  
         “You have a lot to think about,” Paul finally said softly.  “You can take all the time you need to do so, and you shouldn’t allow anyone to rush you.  But if you asked for my advice, what I would tell you is to start slow and easy.  Go to a nightclub or hang out with him every once in a while in a pub or your flat, as friends.  When you feel comfortable, introduce him to some of your good friends.  See how it develops.  If you sense that it isn’t going to work, you can pull back a bit.  Find the pace that suits _you_.”  
  
         “That’s good advice,” Julian admitted.  “Thanks.  I feel a bit better about it now.”  
  
         “I’m always here for you,” Paul reminded him, with a warm smile and a wink.  “If nothing else, we can vent to each other about how impossible your dad is.”  
  
         Julian laughed, and decided to let these new thoughts haunt his brain a while before he made any decisions.  
  


*****

  
      
         “So, Paul, here’s my list,” John said, thrusting a piece of paper in Paul’s face, as they met in the music room at Cavendish.  The list was long, and contained many cross-outs and write-overs.  Paul was absolutely dumbfounded.  There were 40 songs on the list!  
  
         “40 songs?”  Paul asked dumbly, as if still digesting what he was reading.  
  
         “Yeah, I went a bit overboard, but I figured it was easier to eliminate songs than to add them.”  
  
         Paul looked up in shock from the piece of paper and met John’s eager eyes.  John was actually enthused and invested in the set list!  Paul’s brain didn’t seem to be able to work fast enough to assimilate this amazing information.  Finally, the synapses snapped, and he remembered his own list, which he pulled out and handed to John.  
  
         “Let’s compare ‘em and see which ones are the same,” John suggested, sitting down next to Paul, and adjusting the two lists so they were side by side.  “I see we both have _Figure of Eight_ ,” John said.  
  
         “I thought it was a good show starter.  It’s a vamp, and it’s always good to start a show with a vamp,” Paul said.  
  
         “And we both have _This Boy_ ,” John noted, “and _Real Love_.  I notice you left _Friend of Dorothy_ off your list,” John said.  
  
         Paul said, “I thought having 5 songs off the new album was sufficient.”  
  
         “And _Dorothy_ didn’t make your cut?  Well, I say we have 6 songs off the album, and include _Dorothy_.  People loved the video, and it’s a sing-along song.  It’ll be fun.”  
  
         Paul hadn’t heard this no-nonsense ‘I’m in charge here’ voice from John in their working partnership since 1965, and he hadn’t realized how much he had missed it until John was using it again.  Even though ‘ _Dorothy_ ’ could open up a can of worms, Paul would not be able to withstand Hurricane Lennon, and he knew it.    “Sounds good,” Paul said readily.  So readily, that John did a double take.  
  
         _What’s this_? John asked himself.  John hadn’t heard this ‘I’m willing to be led by you’ voice from Paul in their working partnership since 1965, and he hadn’t realized how much he had missed it until Paul was using it again.  John smiled at Paul as if he was greeting an old friend he hadn’t seen in decades.  And the smile Paul gave back was the uncomplicated, trusting, and even slightly adoring smile that John remembered from their youth.  
  
         “So, Paul, are there any songs on my list you really don’t want to do?”  John asked.  
  
         Paul was scanning the list with laser beams for eyes.  “Well, _Imagine_ and _Across the Universe_ are really the same song, except _Across the Universe_ is much wordier; _Imagine_ is so much more elegant,” he said. John smiled at the fact that he had predicted this comment.  
  
         “So, let’s do _Imagine_ , and not _Across the Universe_ ,” John conceded, and Paul crossed out the song and they moved on.  
  
         “You have a lot of your solo work on this list, John,” Paul said in a businesslike tone.  “What’s your thinking behind that?”  
  
         John was surprised that he heard this remark as a question, and not as an accusation.   “I managed to say a lot of things I never could say in the Beatles that were important to me during that period,” John said.  His voice, too, was businesslike and non-accusatory.  
  
         Paul accepted the remark in the spirit in which it was given.  “I did a bit of that, too, during that period.  I’m thinking I’d really like to play some of these songs with you – maybe we can put our own unique mark on the arrangements?”  Paul looked up to see if John was insulted by the suggestion.  What he saw was John grinning at him.  
  
         “And I was hoping you’d consider doing ‘ _Let Me Roll It’_ , because I have some ideas for that song,”    John said.  
  
         “I’d left it off my list, because I thought it was too much like some of yours,” Paul mused.  
  
         “Yeah, you daft twat.  Your ‘Lennon’ song was better than any of mine!  So, why don’t we take turns singing the lead on that one?”  
  
         “Sounds good.  I put _Maybe I’m Amazed_ on the list.  I hope you don’t mind,” Paul said a bit shyly.  “But I was hoping that maybe you would sing it.”  
  
         “ _Me_?”  John had seen the song on Paul’s list, and knew that of course they would have to do that one.  But he hadn’t expected Paul’s request.  “Why _me_?”  
  
         “I’ve always wanted to hear you sing it,” was all Paul could think to say.  
  
         “Funny you should bring this up, because you’ll see I put _Oh Darling_ on the list, and I wanted to sing that one this time.  Would that piss you off?”  John was a little anxious as he asked the question, but he shouldn’t have worried.  
  
         “We’ll have to go down a key or two,” Paul said absent-mindedly while he made a notation next to _Oh Darling_.  
  
         “Are you okay with that?” John asked gently.  
  
         Paul looked up and saw the concern in John’s eyes and smiled.  “It took me a bloody _month_ to figure out a way to sing that song; _obviously_ , it was meant for you to sing.   And I’m not sure even _I_ could sing in that key again myself, even if my life depended on it.”  
  
         John laughed.  This was getting to be great!  And fun!  Just like the old days, when they were able to say anything to each other and not worry about the consequences.  The time seemed to fly by, and it was pitch black outside when they finally looked up from their new combined list of 50 songs.  
  
         “We’ve still got too many songs,” Paul said, looking up finally at this John – this _version_ of John that he had always loved the most.  
  
         “Let’s worry about that another day,” John said lazily, reaching his hand out and cupping Paul’s cheek softly.  
  
         Paul felt the touch as a thrill.  His hand reflexively went up to meet John’s hand, and their eyes were searching each other.  
  
         “Sometimes I forget how much I love you,” John finally said.  
  
         The lump in Paul’s throat prevented him from speaking, although his luminous, glorious eyes were speaking, and John understood what they were saying.  
  
         “I’ve always been grateful we have a day bed in this room,” John drawled in a deep, sensuous voice.  “It has come in handy so very many times.”  
  
         Paul’s eyes were smiling.  He was remembering the 1966, 1967, and 1968 times when he and John had gone from songwriting to making love, and back to songwriting, and back to making love.  Some days they had just stayed naked the whole time, so as not to waste all that time putting on and taking off clothes.  Paul didn’t even feel odd or uncomfortable about the idea of having sex with John in this particular room, because it had been his and John’s long before it had been part of the house he shared with Linda and their children.   So he stood up and, holding on to John’s hand, he headed for the day bed.  
  
         They collapsed down on the mattress and were immediately in each other’s arms, and their arms, legs, and mouths were instantly interlocked.  It wasn’t so much that one of them was leading and the other one following; it was more that they were both leading and following simultaneously.  It was an intricate, perfectly orchestrated coming together of two bodies.  Both men knew this about themselves:  that their creative muses, their singing voices, and their physical bodies were capable of merging in perfect harmony without awkwardness, practice or deliberation.   
  
         John’s whole body was throbbing; it wasn’t just his cock.  In his mind he was about to fuck young Paul, the young Paul who had idol-worshipped him, and who had been his faithful lieutenant, long before women, money, managers, and music critics got in the way:  back when it was just John ’n Paul against the whole fucking establishment.  He felt overwhelmed with youthful vigor and passion.  It was the kind of passion that was un-cynical and untested by time and events.  He grabbed Paul’s face in his two hands, and plunged a greedy, questing tongue into Paul’s mouth so far and fast that Paul gagged a little at first, before relaxing and allowing the intrusion with no further resistance.  
  
         Paul’s hand was scrabbling around trying to undo John’s zipper.  It was a frantic, ineffective kind of grasping, because John had pinned Paul’s left hand to the mattress to further ravish Paul’s mouth, and so Paul only had his less efficient right hand free to attack John’s zipper.  For this reason, Paul began to make protest sounds which, given the fact that his mouth was filled to the brim with John’s tongue, came out as indistinguishable groans.  Paul was about to burst with frustration.  He wanted to get at John’s cock!  But he was pinned to the bed and found himself fully overwhelmed by John’s strength and determination.  He could fight it, but he wasn’t going to win, so he might as well give in to it.  Paul brought his right hand up and slung it around John’s shoulder, pulling John even closer to his face.  _If you can’t fight ‘im, join ‘im._  
  
         John’s mouth finally came up for air, and raunchy words filled the air.  “ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , _I’ve gotta get inside…_ ” Paul felt himself being pushed and prodded.  John wanted him to turn over on to his tummy.  What was going to happen next caused a rush of blood to Paul’s face, and he felt his face burning with a mixture of excitement and humiliation.  This was the stuff of sexual fantasies, and perhaps that is why Paul permitted himself to be turned over without even a token protest.  He felt John stripping his pants down and off.  Paul buried his face in the mattress, and grabbed hold of the sheet with both hands.  John’s hands were squeezing his ass, and he heard John muttering obscene references to his naked bum.  This should be excruciatingly embarrassing, but it was titillating to Paul.   He felt the sudden, shocking intrusion of John’s finger into his rectum, wet with warm lube.  
  
         Paul squirmed under the pressure, and this of course encouraged John, who felt around for the nubby area that would start to activate Paul’s prostate.  John didn’t want to get him off right away, but it would be good to stoke the fire a little.  Paul’s bum was so rounded and perfect, it seemed to be taunting him.  John was on fire, and not thinking in a cerebral way – it was an instinctive, animalistic feeling that rumbled through his lower body.  The urge to possess Paul, to completely own him, was thrumming through his lizard brain.  John’s penis was engorged, and he couldn’t hold himself back any longer.  It was then that Paul felt pressure against his anus, and he knew that John was going to enter him soon. The feelings this threw up in Paul’s conscious mind were the same:  chaotic, urgent, _yearning_ feelings seeking a suitable outlet for the tension building up inside.  
  
         Most of the time when they had sex, they faced each other, no matter who was the “top”.  But very occasionally nothing satisfied John’s baser instincts than to fuck Paul from behind.  As he pushed into Paul his eyes actually rolled back in his head.  His hand, guiding his cock, stopped to squeeze Paul’s ass again.  It was an incredible feeling of power, an act of ownership, and behind it all a sense of wonder that Paul trusted him enough to allow this.  John felt the moment when Paul’s muscles relaxed, and he took the opportunity to push himself all the way in.  
  
         “Oh!”  The sound was a moan at the back of Paul’s throat.  
  
         “Did I hurt you?”  John paused for a moment, worried that he had shoved too hard.  
  
         “No- no- but – no… _oh_!”  The moaning continued as John began slowly to pump in, and then a bit out, and then far in, and then a bit out.   Every time he pushed in, John heard a corresponding moan from Paul’s throat.  Maybe it was painful, John thought, but it was bringing pleasure with it.  He renewed his enthusiastic efforts, and Paul’s moans only encouraged him to plow harder.    He began to feel the rush starting around the edges of his pelvic area, and so he moved his hand below Paul, and grabbed Paul’s dick.  He started working it, gradually increasing the speed of his wrist action until he could feel Paul literally squirming around under him, and the sounds emanating from Paul’s throat had become louder and more urgent.  Recognizing the reality of Paul’s arousal was the last cognitive thought John had before the tension was too great for him, and he came so fast and hard that he heard his own whimpers over Paul’s inarticulate shouts, as Paul came, too.  
  
         “Shit!  Shit!” Paul was swearing under his breath, and John was collapsed on Paul’s back, making noises that sounded like humming.  His arms reached around Paul’s chest, and he hugged him tighter.  His head was snuggled between Paul’s neck and shoulder.   “Oh, man,” John whispered.  Paul had stilled beneath him, and John could feel Paul’s labored breathing gradually slowing and relaxing.  The two men literally melted together into the mattress, and remained there wordless and motionless for a few minutes before Paul began to feel John’s weight, and John – sensing this – forced himself, with his last energy, to roll off Paul’s back onto the mattress beside Paul.  “Whoa…” was all John could say.  
  
         Paul didn’t move.  He remained face down, melted into the mattress, and made a soft sighing sound in agreement with John’s “ _whoa_ ”.   He remained there so long John thought he had fallen asleep when finally Paul stirred, finding the energy to turn over on to his side.   He snuggled up to John, who was lying on his back, wrapped his left arm over John’s chest, and nestled his face into the side of John’s neck.  
  
         “Babe?”  John whispered.  
  
         “Ummm?” was Paul’s lazy response.  
  
         “Today was special.  Today I felt like we were young and on top of the fucking world again.”  John’s voice was a whisper, as if he were speaking in a church.  
  
         Paul didn’t respond verbally, he merely tightened his arm around John, and kissed John’s throat.  
  
         “I never thought I would feel that way again,” John whispered.  
  
         This time, Paul snuggled even closer and whispered back, “It’s _so_ good.”       
  
          Paul might have been thinking about how good it was, but John was thinking, "I should have asserted myself in our partnership years ago!"  
  
          And they were both right.      


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odds and Ends:
> 
> Paul struggles with preparing for the concert; John goes house hunting; Julian visits his mother; and Linda visits Heather in Scotland by way of Liverpool. Dealing with loose ends. :)

       The rehearsals were coming along, Paul thought, although so far it had been slow going.  The rehearsal period was overly ambitious, he feared, but he was locked in to the timing now.  The main problem was that because he and John had changed so many of the arrangements, and their revisions were going on even as they practiced, learning each song had become similar to a recording session, and it was taking at least that long for the band to learn the arrangements.  While he and John had been working on the playlist, Paul had been working with the band on sound check songs, just to see how they played together, and to try to meld the group together.  But now it was time to actually learn the repertoire, and Paul was thinking they should learn 32 songs, and then learn the other 8 on off days while on tour.  He didn’t see how they would be able to learn 40 songs in the short time they had available.   Even learning 32 songs was ambitious; to date they had only learned about half of them.  
        
         None of this would have been so worrisome if John wasn’t completely oblivious to the practicalities of their task.  He seemed to have all the time in the world to mess with the arrangements, as they moved forward song by song.  He was literally bristling with new ideas.  It used to be that he - Paul – was accused of this.  Paul sighed, and figured he wasn’t going to help matters by sitting on his duff worrying, so he got up from his chair, and wandered back into the middle of the studio, announcing to the musicians that it was time to start again.      
  


*****

  
  
       John, meanwhile, was on cloud 9 (not the song, but the allegorical place).    He was playing around with the songs the Beatles had recorded, and also many of his own solo songs – and Paul’s.  For John, it was like 1963 all over again, when he was so fertile that Paul couldn’t keep up with him.  Paul had been so busy chasing after John, completing his unfinished songs and fixing the mistakes in John’s songs, that he hadn’t the time to write songs himself.  It was too bad that John hadn’t yet realized that was why the early years were so fertile for him, and less so for Paul.  He also hadn’t recognized that his own insistence on his own songs being recorded – and any potential hits sung by him – that he had pushed Paul off to the side.  John did not see it that way.  He thought he had been the virtuoso and he would have continued to be so if his emotional and drug problems hadn’t gotten in the way.  Of course, now he knew how much Paul had contributed to his songs, but in John’s mind “fixing” and “finishing” songs was not as important as _creating_ the song.  
  
         Another reason for John’s high spirits was that the house hunting he had been involved in for the last few weeks had finally resulted in a winner.  John had been handling the house hunting because Paul was so wrapped up in preparing for the concert.  At first John had felt not up to the task, but after visiting a few places, he had suddenly found confidence in his own opinions and started expressing them freely to the estate agent.  The two most important requirements were:  (1) there had to be private and/or protected access to the property for privacy and security, and (2) it had to be close to 7 Cavendish Avenue for convenience.  The agent had actually found out about a property that was just going on the market, and had taken John to see it.  The owners would agree not to put the house on the market if they received an offer they liked.  John had been thrilled with the property on the first visit, and had arranged for a second visit, this time with Paul.  
  
         Since the Maida Vale townhouse had sold within an hour to a bespoke client of their estate agent, and they had 60 days to move out.  In 60 days they were starting their concert tour, so they would not need to move until then.  This gave them plenty of time to close escrow on their new home.  Then, while they were on tour, the renovations to the new home could be completed.  The timing worked out well.  
  
  


*****

  
  
       Linda had made plans for a trip to the Scottish farm.  Heather and her boyfriend were living there at the time, and she wanted to see how Heather was doing.  It had been a few weeks since she had been able to talk to her, and Linda knew that Heather tended to pull away when she was confused and upset.  No point in waiting any longer.  Paul was much too busy preparing for the tour.  When Linda had mentioned to him the idea that they should go to Scotland for a week to see Heather she thought he was going to have a stroke.  So she decided she would go on her own, and take James with her.   To that end, she arranged to have the old range rover brought up from the Sussex farm, and she piled the dogs and James into the car, and they headed north.  
  
         She called Paul’s brother, Michael, in advance to tell him that she and James would stop by to see the family on their way up to Scotland, as was the tradition she and Paul had established many a year ago.  Mike was delighted to hear from her, although disappointed that Paul would not be there, too.  
  
         “What’s he up to?”  Mike had asked Linda when she called, and Linda had explained about preparations for the concert tour.  “Aren’t you going on the tour, too?” Mike asked.  
  
         “No, not this time,” Linda said evenly.  “I’ll visit occasionally with the kids, though.”  
  
         Mike was surprised.  Until only relatively recently, his brother had never gone anywhere without Linda and his children.  After Mike hung up the phone, he made himself comfortable in the sitting room.  One of his daughters was there, watching telly.  Mike picked up his glass of whiskey and struggled with his thoughts.  He had been taken totally by surprise when the _Rolling Stone_ magazine article came out a few months ago, followed by all of the speculation in the press about his brother and John Lennon.  Of course, Mike knew the rumors of a sexual relationship between Paul and John were ludicrous; they just had an uncommonly close male bond, and always had.  But Mike _was_ worried about Paul’s marriage to Linda.  One certainty he had come to rely on in this world was that his brother and Linda would always be together, and for whatever reason Mike was invested in that belief.  Oh, well.  He wasn’t going to divine the answer to the question sitting there by himself, so he might as well get back to the book he had been reading before Linda called.  
  
  


*****

  
  
       Julian was taking the weekend off to go visit his mother, Cynthia, who was still living in Penrith, Cumbria.  She had recently told Julian that and she and her partner, Jim Christie, were planning to open a Beatles-themed restaurant in London in several months.  Julian was dubious about the whole undertaking, and felt that Christie was pushing his mother into ill-advised financial ventures, including the perfume called ‘ _Woman’_ (named after a Lennon song from 1980).  That perfume had just been launched, and was already a dead failure.  Julian worried about Christie’s influence and his hare-brained investment ideas, all based on taking advantage of the Lennon name, but Julian also knew that his mother was quite headstrong about supporting the men in her life, and always had been.  She already had three divorced husbands in her life, and in each relationship she had sort of adopted the style, desires, and goals of the man she had married.  With John Lennon she had left Liverpool, and set herself up as a wealthy suburbanite wife with a glittering London social life.   With Roberto Bassanini, the Italian hotelier, she had moved to Italy, bringing Julian with her, and lived the ex pat life.  Julian had liked Bassanini, but the marriage had only lasted 3 years.  Cynthia had moved back to England, and then married an engineer from Lancashire, John Twist.  Julian had despised John Twist.  That marriage had lasted 7 years, during which Twist frequently exhorted Cynthia to take advantage of the Lennon name.  Now she was with Jim Christie, who had been a fucking limousine driver when he met his mother, of all things!  Jim was all right, Julian supposed, but he had delusions of grandeur.  He believed he was a business genius, when in fact he was just a former limousine driver, and not a very good one at that.  
  
         Julian had decided to drive up to Penrith in his brand new silver convertible two-seater BMW 320i Cabrio, a surprise gift from Paul and his dad for his 25th birthday, this past April.  (He knew that Paul was mostly responsible for this fantastic gift, because Paul was the one who had taken him car shopping, and who had paid for the car out of his own account.)  Julian was very proud of the car, and was thrilled with the opportunity to open it up on the motorways.    Of course, the first 45 minutes was bumper-to-bumper getting out of London and its surrounds, but once he broke free of the inner suburbs the traffic picked up and soon he was letting ‘er rip.  
  
         His visit to his mother was occasioned by his father’s recent attempt to reach out to him, and his apparent desire to establish a closer father-son relationship.  Julian adored and trusted his mother, and wanted to get her input on the whole subject.  Paul’s advice had been extremely helpful, and Julian was inclined to follow it, but he knew he would feel more comfortable about the whole thing if his mother agreed with the advice, too.  
  
     

*****

  
     
         The estate agent had found them the perfect house, and John was excited for Paul to see it.  Paul was the Ever-Ready-Bunny again, working his tail off in the studio with the musicians, and meeting with the tour management on almost a daily basis.  Pulling Paul away from these tasks was a major accomplishment, so John was relieved when the limo pulled up to the practice studio, and Paul barreled out – the way he always left buildings:  head down, hands in pockets, and moving quickly and directly to the car.  They’d all learned to leave buildings like that – ever since Beatlemania.  
  
         _Bang!_ The car door slammed shut, and Paul had slipped in beside him.  Wordlessly, the two men leaned in towards each other for a quick kiss ‘hello’.  The driver had not yet gotten in the car, and the windows were blacked out, so they were “safe”.  
  
         “How’s it going, then?” John asked.  
  
         Paul’s response was to shrug and make a face that said, _my hair’s on fire_.  
        
         “This house has _everything_ ,” he informed Paul with barely contained excitement.  
  
         “What is ‘ _everything_ ’ John?” Paul asked, his eyes dancing with suppressed mischief.  
  
         “Mainly, you can get in and out of it through a private mews, which has locked gates, security alarms, and spy cameras,” John responded promptly.  
  
         “ _Spy_ cameras?” Paul asked - the mischief in his eyes was no longer suppressed.  
  
         “Well, you know what I mean, the camera thingies they put up to watch for people who don’t belong there.”  John was irritated with Paul’s mood.  It was inappropriately playful.  He wasn’t taking this seriously enough.  
  
         “Surveillance cameras you mean?” Paul asked politely.  
  
         “Yeah.  That’s the word.”  
  
         “And who is actually monitoring the surveillance cameras?”  Paul wondered aloud.  
  
         “Fuck if I know,” John said, his irritation rising.  
  
         “If no one is actually monitoring them, the cameras are kind of worthless for stopping people.  They’re only good for giving to the police after the crime has been committed.”  Paul knew he was being an asshole, but he was enjoying twitting John when he was so bloody earnest.  John was so rarely earnest, that Paul couldn’t help but be amused by it.  
  
         “Honestly, Paul, you’re worse than Harri.  You could find fly poop on a grain of rice!”  John harrumphed and moved a little closer to the corner, his arms folded in front of him, his face looking like thunder.  
  
         Paul laughed at John’s murderous face and said, “I’m only teasing, John.”  
  
         “I’m sure _somebody_ is monitoring the bloody cameras,” John grumbled angrily, in defense of the new house.  
  
         “Me too,” Paul said in a conciliatory voice.  “So what have you been up to today?”  He thought a change of subject was advisable.  
  
         “Making plans for this house,” John answered, his enthusiasm slipping back in to his voice.  
  
         “You really like it then,” Paul said, his expression one of unadulterated affection as he gazed at his lover.  John was so cute when he was “in” to something new.  
  
         “Yeah – it’s the one.”  
  
         “What’s the asking price?” Paul asked.  
  
         “I don’t know – 1, maybe 2 million pounds.”  
  
         “There’s quite a difference between the two, John,” Paul pointed out.  
  
         “I don’t bloody know, do I?  You can ask the estate agent.”  
  
         “So, is it close to Cavendish?”  Paul tried another question.  Hopefully, John would know the answer to this one.  
  
         “It’s off of Wellington Place and Cochrane Street – just 2 blocks away from your house.  In fact,” John said with a smile,“the mews backs up against your house.  It’s just opposite.”  
  
         “ _Really_?”  Paul was surprised at this news.  But before he could say anything more, the car was driving down his street, Cavendish Avenue, and turning left on to Wellington Place, and then, a short block later on the left and across from the hospital, it came to a stop outside an elaborate and impenetrable gate.  The driver pushed the intercom button, and soon the gates opened and they were driving down a close, lined on one side with mews, and on the other side with be walls to the back gardens of the homes on Cavendish.  
  
         “We’re coming in the back way, so you can see all the security features,” John pointed out, as if he himself were the estate agent.  Of course, this is exactly what the estate agent had said to John when she first took him to the house, earlier that week.  “Look – see - your house is just there, and this new house is only 2 houses up down this mews from here!”  John’s voice was literally ringing with excitement.  “We can put a gate in, at the back of your garden, and we can go in and out with complete freedom!”  
  
         Paul got out of the car, now that it had stopped, and walked a few hundred yards back down the mews.  Sure enough – there was the back of his house.  He could see the top of the glass onion from there.  And John was right.  They could put a gate or door right there, and it would bring you in to his garden, right behind the glass onion.  Talk about a private entrance!  
  
         “Paul, the estate agent’s waiting!”  John was calling him from down the mews.  Paul turned and walked towards John and the waiting woman.  He had not met her before.  As he approached, Paul noticed she was very lovely and also very nervous.  _Another fan to put at ease_ , he thought to himself.  As he thought this he was already putting on the Beatle Paul persona – charming and unthreatening:  just Paulie from the neighborhood.   Paul schooled himself to remain discreet about his relationship with John.  He didn’t want to burden her with a secret she might not be able to keep.  He hoped John hadn’t already revealed the truth about this purchase.  He could only hope that he had not.  
  
         He held out his hand and said, “Hello, I’m Paul,” a warm smile lighting his face that also managed to appear to be a little shy (but it wasn’t).   
  
  


*****

  
  
      Linda made it to Mike’s house in Liverpool in good time.  James was ready to get out of the car and stretch his legs, and quickly disappeared into his uncle’s open arms.  Mike was as kid loving and demonstrative a father figure as was his brother; both had modeled their behavior after their father, Jim McCartney, who had been extremely hands-on for a man of his generation.   
  
         Soon they were settled inside, all gathered around the dining room table and sighing over the filling repast that Mike’s wife Rowena had laid on.  The table was also surrounded by one of Mike’s three daughters from his first marriage, and his son and daughter from his marriage to Rowena, the youngest of which was still a toddler.   When the kids had left the table, and Rowena had taken the youngest upstairs to ready for bed, Linda was left facing Mike across the table.  They drank their coffee in silence for a few moments before Mike spoke.  
  
         “So where’s Paul?” he asked.  He sounded disinterested to the response, but he was actually deeply curious.  
  
         “He’s probably still at the studio grilling the musicians,” Linda said with a smirk.  
  
         “I was surprised you were going up to Scotland on your own,” Mike said in as run-of-the-mill a voice as he could muster.  
  
         “I’m going up to see Heather; we haven’t seen each other since we got back from vacation.”  
  
         That made sense, Mike thought.  “How are you holding up with all this craziness going on?”  
        
         “Craziness?” Linda asked.  
  
         “Yeah, you know, the crazy rumors about Paul and John, and the rumors that your marriage is on the rocks.”  
  
         “Oh, that,” Linda said with a laugh.  “You can’t stop them from talking, can you?  It’s all because of that damn _Rolling Stone_ interview.  They put a weird spin on the album while reviewing it, and got everyone all worked up.  That Jann Wenner is a terror.”  Linda smiled to show Mike that she thought the whole thing was a joke.  
  
         Mike took a measure of comfort from that smile, although he believed it must have been hard for Linda to go through all that.   If there were problems in the marriage, Linda was clearly not going to talk about it with him.  Mike supposed he would just have to wait and see how things panned out, although he thought maybe a quick trip down to London to see his brother - to remind him about how precious his wife and children were - might be in order.  
  
  


*****

  
  
       Julian was similarly ensconced in a cozy family setting at his mum’s home in Penrith.  He and his mother were curled up on opposite sides of the sofa, and Jim Christie had thankfully disappeared, leaving them alone to talk privately.  They had already exhausted all of Julian’s news – the car had been wondered at, an update on Julian’s music career and friends had been completed, and the usual questions about his love life successfully dodged.  Now that he was alone with his mother, he knew he had to open up to her, and discuss the problem he had come here to talk to her about:  what his father’s overtures meant, and how he should respond to them.  
  
         “Mum, I wanted to get your advice on something,” he started softly.  
  
         “Of course, darling.”  Cynthia was always grateful for Julian’s love; she’d never had another child, because she felt as though Julian needed someone who put him first, above everyone else.  And that is exactly what Cynthia had done; at least, she always believed she had done so, even while having to rationalize bringing so many different men into Julian’s life, while ostracizing the one father figure Julian really wanted if he couldn’t have his real dad:  Paul.  Still, Paul had found his way back into Julian’s life in a big way, and for this Cynthia was relieved.  The shiny new car in the driveway was just the latest indicator of Paul’s devotion to her son.  
  
         “Dad had me to dinner at his place a few weeks ago, and he seemed to want to establish some kind of relationship with me – more of a father/son thing than we’ve had before.”  Julian was careful with his choice of words.  He didn’t want to over emphasize John’s intentions, because there were so subject to change at whim, or so it seemed to Julian.  
  
         “That’s encouraging,” Cynthia said slowly.  She was watching her son’s face and body language, and could see there was a huge “but” in the offing.  
  
         “I talked to Paul about it already,” Julian offered.  
  
         “What did Paul have to say about it?” Cynthia asked, pleased that Julian had an older man in his life to consult; a man who would actually listen to Julian’s problems, and provide useable and dependable advice.  
  
         “He said that Dad has changed a lot in the last several years.  He told me Dad’s been having therapy now for years, and that he is learning to control his temper.”  
  
         Cynthia heard this with a degree of surprise.  “Really?  A few _years_?  _Straight through_?”  Cynthia wasn’t surprised that John had sought out therapy.  She was only surprised that he had apparently stuck with it for years.  
  
         “That’s what Paul said,” Julian reiterated.  
        
         “What prompted your dad to do this?” Cynthia asked, still worried and a bit suspicious of her ex-husband’s motives.  He had left a trail of hurt feelings behind him whenever he got close to her son.  
  
         _This is the hard part_ , Julian thought.  “When we were on holiday, in Montserrat, a few months ago – before his album came out – he told me something.  I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but I feel as though I should tell you.”  Julian was observing his mother’s face closely as if he could read whether it was safe to tell her just by looking at her.  
  
         “Oh?” Cynthia was curious, of course she was, but she didn’t want to force Julian to betray a secret.  “Are you sure your father would want me to know?”  
  
         “I don’t actually know if he cares or not,” Julian told her firmly.  “But you’re my mum so I _have_ to tell you, and it’s too bad if he doesn’t like it.”  Julian was feeling a little empowered by making this decision to share the disquieting secret with his mother.  
  
         “Well, whatever you tell me, I won’t repeat it, since it is a secret,” Cynthia assured him.  
  
         Julian nodded.  “You know the recent rumors about Dad and Paul?”  
  
         “The one about them supposedly having some kind of intimate relationship?”  Cynthia blushed a little to be discussing such a subject with her son.  She of course had heard the rumors, and thought they were hilarious.  _John and Paul_!  You’d never find two more devoted womanizers even if you tried real hard.  And, honestly, if there had been anything between them she would have known.  
  
         “Well,” Julian said, somehow absorbing the thought that his mother was not the least bit ready for this news, “the thing is, he and Paul told me that the rumors are true.”  
  
         Cynthia nearly dropped her glass of wine in her lap.  She rushed to put it down on the side table, and turned to Julian with her mouth open in a perfect “o”.  
  
         “ _What_?”  That was all she managed to say, and it came out in a kind of screech.  
  
         Julian winced at the sound, and then continued.  “I’ve known – or at least I suspected – for years,” he said.  “Since I didn’t know for sure, I didn’t mention it to you.”  Julian was looking at his mother sympathetically.  
  
         “For _years_?”  Cynthia knew she sounded like a parrot at this point, but she was having trouble coming up with anything original to blurt out.  
  
         Julian could see her mother was basically speechless, so he tried to explain it to her gently.  “When I moved up to London, I would visit Dad at his townhouse in Maida Vale, and the thing is, Paul was living there with him while Linda was down in Sussex.”  
  
         “ _Paul has left Linda_?”  Cynthia felt as though the floor was falling out from under her.  
  
         “No – Linda was with the kids down in Sussex while they were in school, and Paul would spend half his time down there with them, and half his time in London with Dad.”  
  
         Cynthia was trying to take it all in, but was failing.  “Linda – does Linda know?”  
  
         Julian laughed and said, “yeah, she knows.  When we go on holiday, she’s there, their kids are there, Dad’s there, Sean’s there, and I’m there.  All one big happy family.”  Julian made a sardonic face as he said the last sentence.  
  
         Cynthia was staring at Julian but her mind was trying to picture the scenario Julian had just described.  “And she doesn’t _mind_?”  
  
         “I don’t know if she minds or not, but she doesn’t seem to.  She and Dad get along really well together, from what I’ve seen.  They make each other laugh.”  
  
         “And Paul’s children?”  Cynthia’s voice was a strained whisper.  
  
         “Oh, they know, too.  Paul and Linda told them.  But they just told them this while we were in Montserrat.  Before that, his kids didn’t know.”  
  
         Cynthia’s head was still whirling, but it was beginning to slow down a little.  “Your dad – _a queer_?”  Cynthia hadn’t meant to use the pejorative (or at least, _she_ thought it was one), but she was in shock and her old-fashioned ideas were rushing to the fore.  
  
         “He’s not a _queer_ , mum,” Julian said stiffly,  “It’s called bisexuality.”  
  
         Cynthia had heard of bisexuality, of course, but she had never really believed in it.  How could one person want sex with either a man or a woman?  It made absolutely no sense.  
  
         Julian was beginning to regret telling his mother the secret.  She was obviously going to have trouble with it.  He hadn’t reckoned on the difference in their generations, and how sexual choices were viewed now versus then.  He was also a bit pissed with himself for bringing this up before getting her advice on his dad’s desire to become a bigger part of his life.  He had only told her _this_ in order to lead into _that_.  
  
         “So, the way he told me,” Julian persevered, “was to just say it.  There were no long explanations or anything like that.  Paul asked me if I had questions, and worried about how I felt about it, but Dad acted as though it was no big deal.  Even though I had suspected it, it was still kind of a blow.  I didn’t really know what to think about it, but I knew Dad would be angry if I told him how I really felt.”  
  
         “How did you really feel, Julian?” His mother asked softly, her heart in her mouth.  
  
         “Paul was my role model growing up, although once you got married again he was not in my life.  It is hard for me to think of him in a relationship with a man.  He is kind of my ideal of what a husband and father should be, and then this news kind of put a whole different spin on everything.”  
  
         “I am finding this so hard to believe.  I knew them as young men.  They weren’t lovers then, that I can vouch for.”  Cynthia was positive as she said this.  _She would have known_.  
  
         Julian was looking at her doubtfully.  “Really?  So they suddenly started doing this when they were in their _forties_?”  That sounded improbable to Julian, but then he had grown up in a different time and place from his mother.   He shook himself, and decided to get back on track.  “Anyway, I told you about that to explain why Dad wanted to talk to me.  He said he was sorry about the way he had just blurted it out, and wanted to know how I felt about it, and what I thought about it.  It was weird, he seemed to be trying so hard to be… _father-like_.”  
  
         Cynthia regrouped.  She needed to be what her son needed her to be right now.  She could muse over this shocking news later, in the privacy of her bedroom.  “I’m glad your father reconsidered how he told you, and hoped to explain it better to you.  Did you tell him what you told me?”  
  
         “No, I told him what I thought he wanted to hear – that it didn’t bother me, and I had no questions.  I wasn’t sure I could trust him.  I wasn’t sure if it was for real.  So, later, I went to see Paul and asked him what he thought, and that is when he told me about Dad’s therapy.”  
  
         “Did you tell Paul how you felt about him – well, about the whole role model thing?” Cynthia asked awkwardly.  
  
         “No, I didn’t want to hurt him, mum.  I love him too much, and he is so good to me.  And, it’s weird, when I’m talking to him he’s the same old Paul, you know?  He doesn’t seem any different than he did before I knew about him and Dad.  Maybe I’m just getting used to the idea, and beginning to understand that stuff like that doesn’t really matter.”  
  
         Cynthia was listening with her whole body.  Her son seemed to be transforming into an enlightened being before her very eyes.  “What did he suggest to you about your Dad?” Cynthia finally asked.  
  
         “He said I didn’t have to get close to Dad if I didn’t want to.  He said no one would blame me – not him, not you, not even Dad.  He asked me if I thought it was too late for Dad to try to reach out to me, and said I should think about it and get comfortable with my answer, before I did anything about it.  He also advised me to go slow, you know, see Dad a few times alone, just hanging out, to see how it goes.”  
  
         “That sounds like wonderful advice,” Cynthia said honestly.  “I agree with it all whole-heartedly.”  
  
         Julian smiled.  “That’s what I wanted to hear.  I needed your advice before I could decide what to do.”  
  
         Cynthia smiled warmly at her son.  His love was what really sustained her; not any of the men who had been in and out of her life, letting her down left and right.  Julian was the North Star in Cynthia’s midnight sky.  
  
  


*****

  
  
       Linda and James made it to the Mull of Kintyre by 2 p.m. the next afternoon, having enjoyed the ferry ride across from the mainland.  As they drove up the long road to the farmhouse, Linda could see Heather and her boyfriend waiting at the backdoor.  
  
         Linda opened up the back tailgate, and let the dogs out.  They dashed immediately off into the pasture, barking cheerfully at each other, and looking for trouble.  James hopped out the car and was soon enveloped in Heather’s arms.  Linda approached her daughter a bit warily.  Heather could be touchy, but Linda had always been able to commune with her daughter no matter what was going on.  Now, however, she was a little worried, because Heather had taken the news about her father very badly.  But at first blush, Heather did not seem to be upset at seeing her mother, and they all moved into the house.  
  
         Linda had brought groceries from Ayr before getting on the ferry, and she and Heather bustled about in the kitchen putting them away.  Heather had already started a vegetable casserole, so Linda and her daughter were soon relaxing in the sitting room.  Heather’s boyfriend suggested he take James out on a hike, and soon the mother and daughter were alone together.  
  
         “Have you talked with Mary or Stella recently?” Linda asked as an opener.  
  
         “I had a letter from Stella,” Heather said. She waited a moment before speaking.  “She told me about the family meeting.”  
  
         Linda was actually relieved to hear this, and silently thanked Stella in her thoughts.  “We had to figure out a way to deal with all the changes brought on by your dad working with John again,” Linda explained.  “We didn’t have time to bring you down, but I knew I’d come up here and discuss it with you.”  
  
         “Why didn’t Daddy come?”  Heather always called Paul “daddy”, even though the other children had switched to “Dad” as they grew older.  
  
         “He wanted to, really, but he is under the gun with this tour.  They’re trying to put together 40 songs in two months!  A bit ambitious, I’d say,” Linda chuckled.  But she was watching Heather’s face to see her reaction.  “He sends his love, and hopes you’ll come and visit him while he’s on tour.”  
  
         Heather nodded, but was looking at her hands.  “Is he mad at me?” she asked softly.  
  
         “ _Mad_ at you?”  Linda was surprised by this reaction.  
  
         “I was mean to him about John,” Heather said, finally looking up in to her mother’s eyes.  
  
         “You weren’t mean, love, it was a lot for you to hear all at once, and your reaction was perfectly normal under the circumstances.  Your dad and I feel terrible that we had to put you through this, but we couldn’t bear to keep it secret from you anymore.”  
  
         “I don’t understand it, mum.  Weren’t we all enough for him?”  There were tears in Heather’s eyes.  
  
         Linda had to think about that one.  She finally stumbled upon an answer.  “There is always room for more love, Heather.  He hasn’t _left_ us, he has just _added_ John.  Love isn’t something that is reduced by more people being added.  So he loves you and all of us as much as he ever did, and he loves John too.  It would be the same, in a way, as if we had another baby.”  
  
         “But doesn’t it _hurt_ you mum, that he – well – is in love with someone else – a _man_?”  
  
         Linda had expected this question.  “At first, it was a little hurtful, yes, but I already knew how much your dad loved John.  I had been around when their friendship was falling apart back in the late ‘60s, so I knew how much that hurt your dad.  Above all, I want him to be happy.”  
  
         “It doesn’t seem as though he wants you to be happy ‘above all’,” Heather mused, “or else he wouldn’t ask you to accept this.”  
  
         “Let me be clear about this:  your father has always been there for me.  I’ve gone through a lot of difficult things since we met, and he has always been there for me, protecting me, defending me, loving me.  If I need him he is there as soon as I ask.  Nothing about that has changed.  All I’m sharing with John is time with your dad.  John isn’t part of your dad’s and my love, and nothing he can do or say can change what your dad and I have together.  Of that I am certain.”  Linda had leaned forward and grabbed Heather’s wrists, and was speaking directly into her face.  She had long ago learned that Heather responded better to this kind of direct connection.  
  
         “Are you really okay with it mum?” Heather’s voice was soft and worried.  
  
         “Yes, I am.  I really am.  I have everything I could possibly want.  I have plenty of time with your dad, and when he is with me he is really glad to see me.  I also have plenty of time to myself, and I can do what I want.  I have my children, and my pets, and my cameras.  I also have a good friend in John.  What else could I ever need?”  
  
         A tentative smile was etched on Heather’s face.  “I love Daddy so much,” Heather said, “but I love you most.  I only want for you to be happy.”  She thought for a bit longer.  “Maybe I’ll be able to talk to Daddy about this some day, but not now.”  
  
         Linda gave her fragile daughter a hug.  “We understand, Heather, both of us.  And when you’re ready, let us know.”  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
       “2.2 million pounds is a lot of money to spend on a house, John,” Paul pointed out as he and John met privately in the estate agent’s office.  John just looked at Paul with such a look of yearning, that Paul melted.  “But we can afford it.  The problem is that it needs a lot of work, too.”  
  
         “I know!  I’m looking forward to it!”  John’s face was alight with excitement.  
  
         “We can’t focus on this right now, because we have to get the tour ready,” Paul reminded John.  “I need you to jump in and focus on the tour now.  We haven’t much time left.”  
  
         “I will!  I will!  I can look at design plans for the house while we’re on tour.  It will be fine.”  
  
         Paul sighed heavily.  “What did you tell the estate agent about us?”  
  
         “I just said I respect your opinion, and that you have a better business head than me, so I’m using you as a kind of consultant.”  
  
         “She doesn’t know my money is going in to this too?” Paul asked.  
  
         “I haven’t talked money with her at all.”  
  
         “OK.  Make a 2 million offer, and we’ll see if they’ll take it. I’ll have the solicitor create a limited company to hold title to the house, and you and I will be private members of that company.”  
  
         John could care less about the details.  He was just glad that he had found a house that was even a little grander than the Cavendish house, with a very private route from one house to the other.  This would go a long way to normalizing all of their lives and making him feel equal to Linda in Paul’s life.  
  
         Paul, too, was glad to have this problem solved.  He was grateful that John had found the house on his own, and was going to take ownership of the improvements.  This left less for Paul to worry about.  Now if he could only get John to be as interested in the concert tour as he was in this new house, things would be tied up in a bright red ribbon!


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the concert begins...and so does a new adventure.
> 
> First stop: Liverpool!

         The time had come.  Their first concert, fittingly, would be in Liverpool.  It had been their manager’s idea that they perform their first concert in the Liverpool Empire Theatre, even though it only had 2348 seats.  It was tradition he wanted to hint at, and John and Paul readily adopted the idea.  The huge lumbering trucks had set off from London early, and the sets were being built even as their plane landed at the Liverpool airport.  John and Paul were staying for the few days at Mike McCartney’s house.  While Linda and the kids would arrive the day of the concert, the next two days were filled with last minute details and nerves, so John and Paul had decided to have the family join them later.  They had rehearsals and sound checks to attend, as well as a final run through in the next two days.  
  
         Mike was delighted to see his brother – and John, too, of course, a man he had always loved and idolized.  This would also give him the opportunity to better assess the status of Paul’s marriage.  Of course, he hadn’t considered that Paul would be in full workaholic mode.  It didn’t take Mike long to figure this out, however.  When they showed up on his doorstep, Mike had grabbed both of their overnight bags, and headed for the stairs.  But Paul went straight for the telephone.  John had met Mike’s eyes with an ironic grin and a shrug of his shoulders, and then followed Mike up the stairs.  
  
         “Here is where I’m putting Paul and Linda,” Mike said, leaving Paul’s suitcase on the floor.  “They’re family, so they can share a bathroom with the kids.”  Mike continued to the end of the hall and said, “This is the guest room, and it has an en suite.”  He placed John’s suitcase down next to the double bed.  
  
         John went into the room and looked around.  He was thinking what a drag it was to have to keep perpetrating this fraud.  And, really, he was extremely nervous and – truth be told – _terrified_ as the concert date grew closer, and he had planned on sleeping with Paul for – if not for any other reason – the moral support.  He had somehow managed to leave out of his fantasy the fact that he couldn’t sleep with Paul under his brother’s roof.  
  
         A bit later John wandered down to the kitchen where Mike and Rowena were sitting, having tea.  John joined them at the table after admiring their toddler.  
  
         “So, John,” Rowena said in a cheeky voice.  “It’s been how long since your divorce?”  
  
         “Three – no four – years,” John said smoothly, although he couldn’t imagine why Rowena would be bringing this up in polite conversation.  
  
         “So do you have a woman in your life?” Rowena’s eyes were twinkling.  
  
         “Rowena, stop!  Leave him alone,” Mike chided.  
  
         “It’s not an idle question!  I have girlfriends who’d appreciate an introduction!”  
  
         John felt uneasy, but managed a slight smile.  “Actually, I am seeing someone,” he answered.  “But thanks anyway.”  
  
         “Who is she?” Rowena lit up with excitement.  “Tell me about her!”  
  
         “I’m serious, darling, stop!” Mike pleaded.  
  
         “Someone I’ve known for a long time,” John said.  “But I don’t like to talk about it.”  
  
         “No, of course you don’t!” Mike said in stolid sympathy.  He made a face at his wife.  
  
         “Oh, you two are no fun,” Rowena pouted, causing both men to laugh.  
  
         A few minutes later, Rowena left the room, taking the baby with her, and for a brief golden time silence reigned.  But Mike thought maybe John would have some insight into Paul’s marriage.  If Paul had problems there, John would be the one he’d tell.  
  
         “I’m a little worried about Paul,” Mike began.  
  
         “ _Paul?_ ”  John repeated, surprised.  
  
         “Yeah, I’m worried about his marriage,” Mike confessed.  
  
         John took that statement as a dull blow to his chest.  “Oh? How so?” he managed.  
  
         “Paul and Linda were inseparable for their whole marriage, and in the last few years they seem to spend a lot of time apart.”  
  
         “Hmmmm,” John responded, desperately thinking about what he could say.  “Paul and I renewed our friendship about 7 years ago,” John offered, “and I haven’t noticed any difference between the two of them since then.”  That was true, as far as it went.  
  
         Mike heard John’s comment, but also divined that it was a very carefully worded response.  “John, has Paul confided in you about his marriage?”  Mike’s face looked sincerely worried.  
  
         John met Mike’s eyes.  “Paul _adores_ Linda, Mike.  You don’t have to worry.  Maybe they’ve been apart more the last several years because the kids were in school in Sussex, and Paul’s work takes him to London.  Especially since we began working together again.”  John had tried to convey sincerity with each syllable.  “But now she’s moved back to London with the kids, so I’m sure they’ll be together much more often.”  
  
         “I was surprised to find out that Linda wasn’t going on tour – I thought she would, at least for these last few summer weeks while James isn’t in school.”  Michael was like a dog with a bone, John decided.  
  
         “As I understand it,” John said calmly, “Linda plans to visit us on tour from time to time with the kids.  Since they’re all living in London now – Mary and Stella are working but living at home – Linda wants to be there for them.”  
  
         Mike nodded along to John’s well-rehearsed speech, but internally remained unconvinced.  Mike had a bad feeling in his stomach, but he supposed it was a whole lot of worry over nothing.  He had never liked change, ever since his mother had died…He decided to drop the subject, having squeezed as much out of John as he could.  He cleared his throat.  “That was ridiculous about you and Paul – the rumors,” Mike said, chuckling.  
  
         “Rumors?”  John was still on the Paul/Linda subject in his brain, and was confused by the sudden change in topic.  
  
         “You know – that you and my brother…”  
  
         “Oh!  _Those_ rumors!”  John managed an amused smile, and hoped it wasn’t too sickly looking.  This damned conversation was just one exploding mine after another!  “Yeah – _ridiculous_ ,” John echoed.  Mike didn’t notice the slight tint of cynicism in John’s voice.  
  
         “I’m continually surprised at all the crazy things they come up with.  Remember the Paul-Is-Dead crap?  I got into a slanging match on American TV with the idiot DJ who had started that rumor.”  Mike’s face was a study in indignation.  
  
         “Did you really?” John asked, glad for the diversion.  
  
         “Yeah, he was a total con man, doing it for the publicity.  While we were back stage afterwards he told me I was ‘unprofessional’ for attacking him so bluntly on TV and taking it so seriously.  He actually had the nerve to say that I should have ‘played along’ a bit.”  
  
         “Imagine,” John said, non-plussed.  John had always envied the brotherly bond between Paul and Mike.  They were fiercely loyal to each other.  Oh, they could scrabble between them, but outsiders better not dare to take sides!  
  
         “Anyway,” Mike continued, “this rumor about the two of you was so stupid it has died a quick death.  And rightly so.”  
  
         John realized that Mike was trying to be supportive, but he could not help but feel pain at the thought of his love for Paul being described as ‘ridiculous’, ‘crazy’, and ‘stupid.’  Thankfully, it was just that moment when Paul finally joined them in the kitchen.  
  
         “Well, it’s about time!”  Mike declared.  “What swallowed _you_ up?”  
  
         “Whatever it was spit me back out again,” Paul responded with a quick, businesslike smile.  John knew what that meant.  “John, there are at least three disasters waiting for us at the Empire, so pull your act together and let’s go over there.”  
  
         John normally would groan – at least internally – at such an instruction, but he was so relieved to have an excuse to get out of that painful conversation that he shot out of his chair and up the stairs to get ready.  
  
         “You don’t have time to sit with your brother?” Mike asked, but he was smiling knowingly.  
  
         “I’d be terrible company just now, Mike.  I’d be worrying the whole time.  Later tonight, when we get back, let’s sit in your study with some whiskey,” Paul suggested.  
  
         “Sounds good,” Mike said, as a feeling of warmth went through him. Paul was still Paul – juggling 900 things expertly at once, but still carving out quality time for the people he loved.  
  
  


*****

  
  
      It was odd to be standing on the stage of the Empire again.  The last time he had performed there was 1965.  Twenty-three years.  It was unfortunate that Liverpool didn’t have a large concert arena, although some artists had been using Aintree Racecourse lately.  Paul had heard that no matter what you did, the sound sucked there, and so he preferred a purpose-built site.  He had been happy to hear that there was finally some discussion amongst civic leaders about building an arena. This performance would have to be a stripped down version of the show they’d be doing in the larger arenas, because the stage wasn’t large enough for some of the sets, and pyrotechnics were out of the question.  Still, the length of the show would be the same, and people mainly wanted to hear them sing.  
  
         Paul stood still for several more minutes just staring at the empty seats and remembering instead seats filled with screaming girls and shouting boys.  If he turned a bit to the right he could see the spot where he usually stood in the Beatle years.  A turn to the left and he could almost see George, his head down while he concentrated on his fingers.  And beyond George would be John, singing into the mic for all he was worth with that aggressive intensity that was pure Lennon.  
       
         “You okay, Pud?” Paul heard the soft whisper before he noticed that the Man Himself was standing next to him now.  Paul shook himself to bring his mind back to the present.  
  
         “Just had one of those weird _déjà vu_ moments,” he said, and John smiled in response.  
  
         “It’s freaky, isn’t it?  Remember that first time we played here – as the Quarrymen?  Was that 1958?”  John was starting to feel the heebie-jeebies too.  
  
         “Oh, lord, I don’t know,” Paul said.  “It could have been a million years ago.  Or yesterday.”  
  
         _“…all my troubles were so far away…”_ John sang, in an overly precious voice.  Then he stopped and said, “The scary thing is that the song is right – life _was_ simpler then.”  
  
         Paul chortled out loud.  “Yeah.  Simple.  Could we afford to eat this week?  Real _simple_.”  
  
         “Spoilsport!” John laughed.  “You’re shitting all over my nostalgia.”  
  
         “Well, let’s get to work,” Paul decided, ending the strangely disquieting moment of reflection.  
  


*****

  
  
      That night Paul made good on his promise to Mike, and he sat up with him in his study for a few hours, sharing a half  bottle of old Irish whiskey and talking of old times.  Mike had intended to bring the conversation around to Paul’s marriage, but he was enjoying the vibe so much that he didn’t want to risk spoiling it by raising a touchy subject.  Anyway, about 30 minutes into their talk, John came in and was asked to join.  The three men were telling each other stories from their teen years.  They all knew the stories, but somehow reliving them together in this comfortable setting made all the memories come alive again.  
  
       

*****

  
  
      In the late afternoon of the concert date, Linda showed up with Mary, Stella and James.  While the kids toted their overnight bags into their cousins’ rooms, Linda and Paul found a few moments to be alone together in their bedroom, and took full advantage of the opportunity.  Paul was quite horny, having gone a few days without sex at a time when he was quite stressed, and sex is what he needed when he was stressed.  John, mournful, had made himself scarce by hiding in the kitchen with Mike and Rowena, who were curious about the show.  But John was not very good company.  His nerves were on red alert, and he was feeling neglected and ignored to boot.  
  
         When it was time to leave for the Empire, the large group of family members stood in the driveway staring at the available vehicles.  A limo had arrived to take John and Paul to the theatre, and Paul invited Linda to go with them.  The kids would travel over in Mike and Rowena’s various vehicles with their cousins.  
  
         John felt as though he was headed for the gallows as he sat in the car, huddled up against one window.  Paul sat in the middle between Linda and John, figuring that way he could receive comfort from the one side, while dispensing comfort to the other.  In aid of that solution, Paul threw his arm around Linda, and she squeezed the hand he had placed on her shoulder.  Paul leaned over and kissed her.  Then he quietly reached out for and grabbed John’s hand with his other hand, and squeezed it reassuringly.  For a brief moment their eyes met, and Paul smiled and winked.  John managed to dredge up a sickly smile in response.  
  
         John was thinking to himself that it was a miracle he had managed to get this far in the process without breaking down and abusing anxiety – reducing substances.  Apart from his prescribed Prozac and his regular weekly quotient of pot, not to mention wine or whiskey when it seemed right, John was substance free.  Of course, he had spent hours with his therapist in the last few weeks in order to accomplish this amazing feat.  Fiona had given him her private phone number and told him to call at any time as necessary.  John had taken her up on it, and no doubt Fiona had long since rued the day she’d made that offer.  For whatever reason, John did not share this information with Paul.  To John, Paul had always seemed intimidatingly confident.  John had simultaneously admired, envied and even resented that quality in Paul since the first day they met, and John didn’t like to show how emotionally weak he was to Paul – literally relying on a therapist to get himself through the day, day by day.  And John suspected he’d be using that telephone number constantly while the tour progressed.  
  
         Soon they were pulling up to the backstage area of the Empire, and there was a crowd of photographers waiting for them as they climbed out of the limo.  Paul held on tight to Linda’s hand, and the two of them smiled for the cameras, while John quickly waved and disappeared into the backstage entrance.  All of them were blinded by the camera flashes and deafened by the cacophony of sounds.  Paul and Linda were right behind John, and within moments the three of them were in the private dressing room, but almost immediately Linda stepped out to greet the kids and family members who were arriving right behind them, and gathering in a reception room.  
  
         “Well, mate, here we are.”  Paul’s voice was resigned, but cheerful.  “No turning back now.”  He had been fully aware of John’s chilly silence, and his ghostly white skin.  John’s hand, in the limo, had been both cold and clammy.  It was the dreaded flop sweat.  He sat in a chair opposite John, leaning forward, and gently took hold of John’s two hands.  “You with me?” he asked softly.  
  
         John eventually let his eyes drift up to meet Paul’s.  “I’m really sorry I didn’t take this more seriously.  I’m not ready, and I feel as though I let you down.”  
  
         Paul was distressed to find that John’s usually reliable false bravado had taken this particular moment to desert him.  “It’s just a show, John.  If we screw up bad we’ll make a joke and start over; otherwise, we’ll do what we always did before – we’ll pretend we did it that way on purpose and keep going!”  Paul grinned at John, as he was briefly reminded of long-past performances when they’d all been ill-advisedly high on pot, and where they’d screwed up constantly almost from start to finish, but everyone loved them anyway.  “Once we get through that first song or two, we’ll be alright.  You’ll see.”  
  
         John nodded, but it wasn’t a very reassuring nod.  Sighing to himself, Paul figured he’d have to supply the over-the-top energy coming out at the start, and he knew John was enough of a show-off to join in, once he’d dealt with these nerves.  It wasn’t as if Paul didn’t have nerves, too, but he had far more recent practice in dealing with them, so had learned to turn that nervous energy into a positive force once he hit the stage.  
  
         A few moments later, the two men changed into their concert duds in silence.  They were both wearing tight black jeans, and black t-shirts under tailored white jackets.  
  
         “We look like a couple of waiters,” Paul noted as they both stared at themselves in the full-length mirror.  “We should have thought of putting this stuff on and looking at it together before now, so we’d realize how cheesy it looks.”  
  
         “Once we take these jackets off it’ll be okay,” John offered, although his tone was doubtful.  
  
         “Better than dressing up like rainbows, I guess,” Paul muttered.  
  
         “You mean like _Sgt. Pepper_?”  John’s sense of humor was making a late appearance.  
  
         “There was a time and a place for that,” Paul laughed, “but it’s not _now_!”  
  
         They lapsed into silence as they made quiet adjustments to their hair and collars.  
  
         “Let’s go out and see the family,” Paul suggested, and John followed him.  He was exhorting himself to pluck up his energy.   They had already tuned and re-tuned their guitars to within an inch of their lives, so they might as well spend the last twenty minutes mingling.  John soon found that the mingling helped.  He felt his fake self-confidence and smart-ass alter ego building up some steam inside him, and soon he was the loudest person in the room again.  Paul noticed and felt a rush of relief.  He knew John would be great once they were on stage, but he had hated to see John suffering so much from stage fright.  
  


*****

  
  
         Meanwhile, the theatre was filled with excited people:  celebrities, rock critics, industry insiders, reporters, photographers, and over two thousand fans.  The anticipation was so thick that you could taste it.  Earlier, police had to hold back a barrier in the street, where ticketless fans had tried to break through, and a press helicopter had been warned off by air traffic control after it had momentarily hovered over the site.  Beatles music could be heard echoing from the concession area, where t-shirts and posters were being flogged, both legally and not-so-legally.  It was the usual controlled chaos before a large scale rock concert, but because it was hometown heroes Lennon & McCartney performing together for the first time in 20 years, the excitement was on steroids.  Rumors over whether the other two Beatles would show were running rampant through the crowd, egged on by a panting press corps.  Inevitably, inexorably, the evening light faded into dark night, and then it was finally 8:00 p.m.  
  
         Backstage, John and Paul, now in the wings, stood in front of a microphone hidden behind the velvet curtains.  They had earphones on and were watching each other’s eyes with an intensity that unnerved observers.  Across the stage from them in the other wing, Robbie McIntosh had his guitar mic’ed and ready to play.  The stage lights dimmed completely and the audience burst into excited applause.  The performers waited until the audience sound abated a bit, and then Robbie began to play a familiar, haunting guitar riff, and as the audience began to recognize it, John and Paul began to sing in perfect harmony:  
  
  


_Because the world is round, it turns me on_   
_Because the world is round,_   
_Because the wind is high, it blows my mind_   
_Because the wind is high,_   
_Love is old, love is new_   
_Love is all, love is you_   
_Because the sky is blue, it makes me cry_   
_Because the sky is blue_   
_Ah Ah Ah Ah Ah…._

  
  
      As the last strains of the melody finished, the band took to the stage in the dark and John and Paul came out as the lights came up.   The musicians immediately started in on the opening vamp to _Figure of Eight_ while the roar from the crowd was literally deafening.  John and Paul exchanged panicked but exhilarated looks, and then Paul heard his cue and started to sing.  
  
         The crowd continued to roar its approval, and John felt his spirits rise.  They wouldn’t be able to hear him if he made a mistake, he realized, and one of the scariest parts for him – the almost _a cappella_ version of _Because_ – was over, and he hadn’t screwed it up.  He felt a burst of happiness travel up from his feet to his spine and soon he was grinning and mugging across the stage at Paul, whose face looked literally incandescent in the spotlight.  John had forgotten how beautiful Paul’s face looked – how expressive and joyful – when he was singing in a spotlight in front of an audience.  John threw himself into the chorus and middle 8, and found that he was thoroughly enjoying himself.  Why had he been so afraid?  And why had he denied himself this pleasure for so long?  
  
         As soon as the song ended, the band launched into _Instant Karma_ , and John planted himself two-footed in front of the microphone as he exhorted the audience to _shine on_.  Paul was leading the chorus, and the audience was going crazy.  Everyone was on his feet. As the chorus swelled at the end, John stopped playing his guitar and was pumping his fist in the air while the audience sang, “ _And we all shine on, like the moon, and the stars, and the sun_ ” over and over.  It was incredible, the rush.  He looked over and caught Paul’s eye.  Paul grinned like a madman, and continued to sing the words with the audience.  _This was so fucking fun_!  
  
          Not only John and Paul but the entire band was on fire.  They were so hyped up that they had to rely on the drummer to keep them from racing through the next song.  The sax player, Bobby Keys, stepped forward and began to play.  Paul launched straight into _Listen to What the Man Said_.  The song had to be arranged for a single sax and no trumpets, but nothing was lost in the translation.  Paul watched the whole audience move as if it were a giant kaleidoscope of colors and patterns, constantly changing.  He was filled with the thrill that he had missed so much for nine years.  He was confident about the playlist lineup, and knew they were about to launch into a song that would send the audience wild.  As the last wails of Paul’s song ended, John stepped up to the microphone, and the sound of a swampy bass began to set the beat, and the audience recognized what was coming and did in fact go wild.  John’s raw, throaty voice pierced the night air:        
  
  


_Here come old flattop, he come grooving up slowly_   
_He got joo-joo eyeball, he one holy roller_   
_He got hair down to his knee_   
_Got to be a joker he just do what he please”_

  
  
Paul joined in for the next verse and the two ripped through the rest of the verses in a picture-perfect crazy harmony:  
  


_He wear no shoeshine, he got toe-jam footfall_   
_He got monkey finger, he shoot coca-cola_   
_He say "I know you, you know me"_   
_One thing I can tell you is you got to be free_   
_Come together right now_   
_Over me_

_He bag production, he got walrus gumboot_   
_He got Ono sideboard, he one spinal cracker_   
_He got feet down below his knee_   
_Hold you in his armchair you can feel his disease_   
_Come together right now_   
_Over me_

_He roller-coaster, he got early warning_   
_He got muddy water, he one mojo filter_   
_He say "One and one and one is three"_   
_Got to be good-looking cos he's so hard to see_   
_Come together right now over me_   
_Oh_   
_Come together_   
_Yeah come together…_

The “ _come togethers_ ” that ended the song became louder and louder as the entire audience joined in, and then the swampy bass took them out.   As the music wended to an end, Paul and John were grinning madly at each other.  _Wheeee_!  The magical feeling was still there!  
  
         Paul moved up to the piano as John approached the center microphone.  
  
         “Liverpool – _my heart!”_ he shouted into the mic.  The audience went wild for close to two full minutes.  Then Paul began the opening piano chords to _Maybe I’m Amazed_.  But, to everyone’s surprise, it was John Lennon’s voice that ripped through the night air.  The sound of the audience’s shock was a huge sucking sound that John, Paul and the band felt as if it were a blow.  This made Paul smile, and John assimilated it and determined that he was going to sing the best damn version of this song that he possibly could.  
  
         In the wings, Linda was watching with a kind of shocked silence.  Paul had not warned her that John would be singing her song.  But somehow it filled her with love and gratitude; John sang the hell out of it, and Paul’s piano accompaniment was incredibly passionate.  John’s raw singing, and Paul’s passionate playing made the song literally vibrate.  Linda thought she could almost _see_ the vibrations emanating from the stage. The “ _ohs_ ” at the end, as performed by John, were literally like sounds rent from his throat, and he gradually backed away from the microphone so the “ _ohs_ ” slowly died away, leaving only hard guitar to finish the song.  
  
         No sooner had the guitar wailed to an end than Paul began the first piano chords for his next song, set in a very stark arrangement (as opposed to the overblown version produced by Phil Spector), _Long and Winding Road_.  Paul’s voice was pure and pained as he leaned into the mic on the piano, and gave what he had up to the night.  
  


_The long and winding road that leads to your door_   
_Will never disappear_   
_I've seen that road before_   
_It always leads me here_   
_Leads me to your door_

_The wild and windy night that the_   
_rain washed away_   
_Has left a pool of tears_   
_crying for the day_   
_Why leave me standing here,_   
_let me know the way_

_Many times I've been alone and many times I've cried_   
_Anyway you'll never know the many ways I've tried_

  
  
John joined in at this point in low harmony to Paul’s high harmony:  
  
  


_And still they lead me back_   
_to the long and winding road_   
_You left me standing here_   
_a long, long time ago_   
_Don't leave me waiting here,_   
_lead me to you door_

_But still they lead me back_   
_to the long and winding road_   
_You left me standing here_   
_a long, long time ago_   
_Don't keep me waiting here (Don't keep me waiting),_   
_lead me to you door!_   
_Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…_

 

*****

  
  
         It was 2 a.m., and they were back at Mike McCartney’s house and the wild family partying had petered out, the kids had drifted off to their rooms, and only John, Paul, Linda, Mike and Rowena were left, stretched out in the sitting room nursing their various night caps.  The excited utterances had had their day, and now the five adults in the room were mellow and relaxed.  John was relaxed because the feared first performance was over and he knew it was a triumph.  Paul was relaxed for the same reason, but also because he was relieved that John was euphoric and jazzed.  Linda was relaxed because her beloved husband had done a brilliant job – he had been the glue that had held the show together, which allowed John to do his best, most charismatic, work; this had been obvious to all who had watched the concert, and this same apercu would find it’s way into the press reviews the next morning.  Mike was relaxed because he felt the release of tension that his brother had held back, and now Paul looked as though the weight of the world was off his shoulders.  Rowena was relaxed because she had already consumed three fingers of Cointreau, was enjoying everyone else’s vibe, and was feeling no pain.  
  
         “I am so fucking relieved that it is _O-VER_!” John suddenly shouted.  Everyone else laughed and cheered in response.  John turned to Paul.  “You were smoking hot tonight, babe,” he said, slurring his words a little from the effect of whiskey and pot.  
  
         Mike heard the word “babe”, and so did Linda.  Rowena was oblivious.  Mike looked sharply at John, but didn’t see anything to make him feel suspicious.  Linda tried to disguise her surprise at John’s lapse, and instead joined in on John’s praise.  
  
         “You were fantastic, Paul,” she said, “but so were you John.  You moved me to tears with your version of _Maybe I’m Amazed_.  I didn’t know you were going to sing it!  But it was incredible!”  
  
         John smiled at her with deep affection.  “I was thinking of you the whole time, Lin.  Paul wanted me to sing it because he wanted to hear it as a third party.  Paul – what did it feel like to you?”  
  
         “I was so focused on the piano, but John – at the end – with the ‘ _ohs_ ’!  I had tears in my eyes!”  
  
         “Me too!” Linda cried.  “It sounded like you brought those noises up from your gut or something!”  
  
         John found himself inordinately pleased with Linda’s praise.  Paul’s meant a lot to him, but somehow Linda’s praise was touching him on a deeper level.  
  
         Mike suddenly joined in.  He was looking at his brother when he said, “When the two of you sang ‘ _Strawberry Fields’_ followed by _‘Penny Lane’_ , I thought the ceiling was going to collapse!  Everyone was singing along – it was so incredibly moving.”  
  
         “I have so many incredible memories from tonight,” John mused.  “I don’t know why I stayed away from the stage so long.  I had forgotten how much I love it.”  
  
         Paul heard this and was deeply happy.  His smile looked mild, but his feelings were overwhelming.  It had been the best possible experience, and he knew the reviews were going to be fantastic.  But what mattered most was that he and John had gelled.  They had found that channel where they both became one, and their voices and timing and musicianship all rose to the highest possible level.  Never – with no other person – had Paul felt himself ascending to the heights of his ability, and seeing John’s relief and happiness meant everything to Paul.  
       
         Eventually, Rowena fell asleep, and Mike excused himself, gently rousing his wife, and leading her upstairs.  John, Paul and Linda were still there, seated in an awkward silence.  
       
         “Well, I guess Linda and I will go to bed, now,” Paul said tentatively.  
  
         Linda actually felt sorry for John.  She saw the disappointment and loss on John’s face.  On the other hand, next week he and Paul would be off on a months’ long tour, and so she felt she was entitled to this night alone with her husband.  Still, she gave John a long, lingering hug and left the room quickly, to allow her husband to say goodnight privately to John.  
  
         Paul immediately grabbed John, who had sort of collapsed into himself, and pulled him into a tight hug.  “John – John – I love you.  You know I love you, don’t you?” he whispered in John’s ears.  
  
         John’s eyes filled with tears, but he nodded in acceptance of Paul’s confession.  He was unable to say anything – his throat was so full.  
  
         “We’ll be together tomorrow night, I promise,” Paul whispered in John’s ear, as he kissed him fiercely on his cheek and then his mouth.  
  
         John raised a brave smile.  “I know,” he said.  “I know.”  
  


*****

  
  
         Paul and Linda made passionate love to each other.  As Paul slowly grinded above her, he was whispering in her ear.  “You are a miracle, Lin, a bleeding miracle.  Sometimes I feel like you can’t possibly be real.”  
  
         Linda thrust her pelvis up and bit Paul’s neck aggressively.  Then she whispered, “I’m _real_ , trust me.”  
  
          Linda giggled, and Paul laughed.  “I’m gonna miss you so much when I’m on tour.  You’ll come visit – won’t you?  Promise me!”  
  
         Linda whispered something in Paul’s ear that made him begin thrusting harder and harder until Linda climaxed, and Paul was right behind her.  
  


*****

  
  
      John, meanwhile, was in a modified fetal position in the large bed in the spacious guest room with the en suite bathroom.  He was hugging a pillow and pretending it was Paul.  The sights, sounds, and smells of the night’s events were still haunting his brain, but his arms, his legs, and all of his muscles were craving the missing legs, arms and corresponding muscles of Paul.  He knew he was being ridiculous, but hot tears began to leak out of the sides of his eyes despite all of the remonstrations John made to himself.  He squeezed the pillow ever closer, and the hot tears flowed without check.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the Lennon & McCartney World Tour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will proceed swimmingly until they don't. (? - You'll find out in later chapters.)
> 
> Just some reminders: this takes place at the very end of 1988 and we don't have ticket sales on line yet. It was back in the dark ages where people had to stand in line in front of agents' offices sometimes for days to get tickets. Ahhh...the bad old days. :)

         Paul was at home at Cavendish.  He was going over his notes from the first month of the tour.  They had scheduled two dates in London and a whole week in town to rest before taking on the rest of the European leg of their tour.   Once they’d got going and were focused totally on the tour, he, John and the band had managed to learn 40 songs, and had agreed that they would try to learn about 5 more in the coming weeks so they could vary the concerts more to keep them fresh.  They generally performed 34 songs per night.  Paul looked through the numbers again.  It was hard to believe that they would ultimately be doing 69 concerts in 60 different cities on four legs:  Europe, South America, Australia and Asia, and North America.  The venues had all sold out within hours of going on sale, and in some cases people had stood in line for days at the ticket agencies, camping out on the sidewalks.  
  
         The reviews had been almost embarrassing; they literally _gushed._ This made Paul a little nervous; it felt like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Thus far, after Liverpool, they had performed one night each in Dublin, Belfast, Edinburgh, Oslo, Stockholm, and Copenhagen.  They were flying out the night of each concert to the next venue, and then resting for a few days before the next concert, while also rehearsing new material.  In this far more leisurely way (as compared to the death marches Brian Epstein had led them on) they had been on the road for about four weeks, and they’d spent their fifth week here in London.  Tonight was the last London show before they moved on to Paris for two concerts there.  
  
         John was across the alley from Cavendish in the bare bones of the new house.  The door between the alley and the McCartney backyard had been completed in the past month, and the demolition inside had been done, so John was taking a tour with the contractor, and creating a punch list.  Paul smiled to himself as he thought of John’s enthusiasm over the project.  He was always pouring over blueprints and waving swatches around.  Paul chuckled out loud at just the thought of that.  
  
         “What do you think of this color?” John had asked him the other night, as if the fate of the world depended on Paul’s answer.  
  
         “Blue?  I like blue.”  
  
         “It’s not blue – its _indigo_!”  
  
         “Looks blue to me.”  
  
         That was when John looked at him as if he were a troglodyte.  And Paul had already been through this torture with “tan” (“ _taupe!_ ”), “purple” (“ _aubergine_!”), and a color Paul called “yellow-green” (“ _chartreuse!_ ”)  Paul didn’t know why designers thought colors were prettier if they had French names, but apparently it was so.   Paul could care less about colors, decorations, and furnishings.  Beyond wanting his surroundings to be comfortable to live in, and not too frou-frou, he had no real interest in interior design.  And it was a good thing, too, because if he did have any opinions, John would no doubt have wildly disagreed with them and killed him by now.   He was _that_ into it.  
  


*****

  
  
        John was thrilled with the progress on the house.  The contractor had taken down some unnecessary walls, and widened several of the windows to bring more light in, but they were using materials from a Regency-era renovation source.  The kitchen, however, had been completely gutted, and enlarged by absorbing an adjacent room.  In the upstairs rooms they were already patching the walls in preparation for re-plastering.  It was expensive, but John felt it would make a big difference to the finished product.  The designer had been there already and had shown John the latest updates to the plans.  John had at least ten more updates and changes, and by her reaction, John could see the honeymoon period with this designer was soon coming to an end.  
  
         He finally tore himself away from the house, and made his way down the alley to the Cavendish gate.  It was time to start readying himself mentally for tonight’s concert.  The crippling fright which preceded the first few shows had given way to a lesser version of nerves, and John found that he could manage that level of stage fright without relying as heavily on his therapist as he had thought he would.  He had seen her in person two times this week, and she had been amazed at how well he was holding up.  Secretly, so was John.  He never would have believed himself capable of it.  
  
         Paul was lounging in his favorite chair in the sitting room when John came in through the garden door.  John couldn’t help but notice a certain shabbiness in the house’s décor now that he had become an interior design expert.   Linda had never been that interested in home decoration – she was a live and let live kind of person.  And Paul was – for the most part - oblivious to his surroundings.  He would notice and not like dirt and dust, and he wanted furniture he could sack out on, and he didn’t like things to be too precious or outlandish, but other than that he could care less.  John felt an almost housewife-like affection for Paul – his clueless “husband” - and laughed at himself.   One of John’s secret critiques of Linda had been her lack of concern for such things as a beautifully maintained and operated house.  Jane Asher had been fantastic at that.  _Hmmmm_.  Could explain why Paul chose Linda.  Jane Asher wasn’t as warm or loving or mothering as Linda, and perhaps Paul associated topnotch chatelaine skills with coldness and distance as a result.  John took a serious moment to remind himself never to let his desire for style and panache in his home get in the way of being a loving partner to Paul.  He would gain a beautiful home, but lose Paul, and he had no intention of losing Paul again.  
  
         “Hey, luv, it’s getting to be about that time,” John said to Paul, gesturing to the clock on the mantelpiece.  
  
         Paul had been dozing, apparently, because he jumped a little when John spoke.  
  
         “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were sleeping,” John said.  “You do that – napping – so seldom.”  
  
         “What time is it?” Paul asked with a sense of urgency.  This is what he always asked as soon as he woke up from one of his very rare naps – as if he was automatically afraid he was missing some looming deadline.  It must be exhausting being Paul sometimes, John thought.  
  
         “You’re okay.   It’s only 3 p.m.  We’ve got time.”  
  
         Paul shook his head as if he could get cobwebs out of his brain that way.  “I only just sat down and then boom! I fell off to sleep.  It must have been 45 minutes ago.”  Paul seemed astounded that he had done this, although – John reflected – this would be a very normal thing for anyone to do on a lazy afternoon.  But Paul wasn’t “normal” in that way, John knew.  
  
         “We’ve got enough time to play around in the music room together,” John offered mischievously.  
  
         “Where’s Linda?” Paul asked suddenly, as if he hadn’t heard John’s invitation.  
  
         “She’s out to pick up James and then do some shopping, remember?  And the girls are at work.  We’re. Alone. In. The. House.”  John wiggled his eyebrows for emphasis, and finally Paul relaxed, and his face lit up with amusement.  
  
         “She could come home at any moment,” Paul mused teasingly, stringing John along.  
  
         “All the more reason to get that matchless ass of yours upstairs right now!”  John leaned over and grabbed Paul’s arm and pulled him up from the chair.    
  
         Paul pretended to be put out by this nonsense.  “You’d have thought you’d had enough of this in the past month.  We barely go a night without…” Paul was saying this as he allowed John to pull him up the stairs.  
  
         “Watching you on stage makes me hot,” John interrupted, as they reached the middle floor.  “I can’t control myself.”  
  
         “So who’s getting fucked tonight?” Paul asked with exaggerated fake boredom as he was dragged up the next flight of stairs.  
  
         “Me!”  John declared loudly.  
  
         “So _I_ have to do all the work…” Paul pretended to grumble and made a sour face.  
  
         “I’ll help you, baby, I promise…” John was grinning now.  He loved this playful bantering before sex.  It only got him hotter.  They had reached the attic music room, and John burst in, and then slammed the door as soon as Paul had been led in behind him.  He then locked the door, and turned to face Paul with his arms out.  “I’m ready to be ravished!  What are you waiting for?”  
  
         Paul shook his head in amusement, but decided to play along.  _Why not?  You only live once_!  He grabbed John’s arm and swung him over to the daybed, and then roughly pushed John down on it.  
  
         “ _Whoa!_ ” John uttered as he saw what appeared to be a very angry Macca looming over him.  _So fuckin’ sexy_.  
  
         “You want it rough – you get it rough,” Paul muttered darkly.  All hint of amusement had deserted Paul’s face, leaving only black, dangerously glittering eyes drilling down into John’s.  John’s cock sprung instantly to life.  _Hel-lo!_ He loved it when Paul went all caveman on him.  Paul had begun to strip off John’s clothes, and he wasn’t doing it gently.  John found himself manhandled and he loved every second of it.  He decided to pretend to fight this beastly man off.  
  
         When John started struggling, Paul was at first taken aback.  Had he gone too far?  But then he realized that John was into the fantasy and he tried not to laugh out loud.  He schooled his face to remain stern and unrelenting, and – with resistance now – managed to finally strip John of all of his clothes.  The resistance John offered made the experience seem even naughtier to Paul, and he quickly dismissed the ensuing feeling of guilt.  (A lifetime’s lessons about always behaving like a gentleman were hard to shake off at times.)  Paul still had all of his clothes on, and he thrilled to the sensation of John being so naked and vulnerable, while he was intact and in control.  He leaned his head down to John’s neck and bit him forcefully at the nape.  John yelped and squirmed, but Paul had locked John’s hands down to the mattress with his own hands, and John couldn’t move very far.  
  
         John was swept up in the fantasy, and even his breathing was hitching.  He felt Paul’s knee roughly separating his legs and forcing them apart.  Paul then settled on his knees between John’s legs and, letting go of one of John’s hands, grabbed one of John’s thighs and forced John’s leg up until his foot was flat on the mattress.  John sighed deeply and Paul moved his mouth up from John’s neck to his mouth, kissing him deeply and greedily.  John could taste Paul’s saliva, and it excited him to be so completely mastered.  Paul had let go of John’s hands, but only to push John’s legs up in the air and take a firm grasp on his ass.  John felt the exploratory fingers around his anus, and he moved his pelvis up to welcome the invasion.  
  
         The urgency in Paul’s loins was so powerful he had stopped monitoring himself.  He was just a physical being now, moving inexorably to sate his sexual appetite.   He couldn’t wait any longer playing around with his fingers, and he just decided to plunge his cock in to John’s hole without further ado.  He had slathered it with lube, and John’s entrance as well, but these were the only genuflections he’d made to John’s comfort.  He knew that John would welcome the abrupt act, because John enjoyed it when Paul was a little bit savage with him while they were having sex.  Paul’s head threw back as his cock pushed into John’s rectum.  It was a different kind of feeling than entering a woman’s vagina – it was tighter, rougher, more treacherous (bones and turns at odd places), and less purpose-made.  But there was something so arousing about fucking John – a man – and having him surrender himself this way.   Inarticulate sounds – low, groaning sounds – began to be emitted from Paul’s throat and soon he was thrusting in a strong rhythm.  It felt like music - playing an instrument - when he was rutting like this.  It was a completely non-intellectual beat that drove him forward.  There were times – not when he was in the act of sex itself – but other, quieter times, when Paul allowed himself to realize that he was starting to prefer sex with John rather than sex with Linda.  This was not something he would ever tell to either of them, and almost as soon as the realization would come into his mind he would chase it away and lock the door behind it.  
  
         John could feel Paul’s cock plunging deep inside him over and over again.  Paul was so creative with his rhythm, and John loved Paul’s fucking because he was as good at fucking as he was at playing bass – complete with the variations on a theme, the periodic counter melody, and the unexpected periods of relentless thumping backbeat.   John began to moan and then to cry out:  “ _Harder!  Harder!  Harder_!”  
         
         Paul heard John’s exhortations and endeavored to comply.  “ _Oh! – Oh! – Oh_!”  Paul’s voice grew a bit louder with each “oh”.  
  
         “ _Daddy_?”   A child’s shout was heard from two floors below.  
  
         Paul stopped in mid-thrust.  His eyes flew open and he looked down and saw John’s eyes wide open too.  John’s index finger rushed to his lips and he made a silent ‘shushing’ motion.  Paul pulled his cock out, and quickly pulled his pants up.  At least he hadn’t taken his shirt off.   He moved to the door, gesturing for John to cover up with the sheet, and opened the door a few inches.  
  
         “Yes, James?” Paul shouted down the stairwell.  
         
         “I’m home!”  James shouted back.  James felt it was necessary to declare his arrival every time he got home.  Usually, Paul found this to be endearing but at the moment his sexual frustration made it hard for him to appreciate this habit.  
  
         “How was school?” Paul shouted down.  He felt foolish asking the question under the circumstances, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.  
  
         “Paul – when are you going to leave for Wembley?” Now it was Linda’s voice shouting up the stairs.  “And is John with you?”  
  
         Paul blushed at that question, although he was sure Linda hadn’t meant anything by it.  “Yeah, we’re…working on … something.  Up here in the music room.  We’ll be down in a few.”  Paul was shouting this down the stairwell, but he could hear John’s barely contained giggles behind him.  He turned around, shutting the door and locking it again.  He was trying not to laugh himself.  “John!  It’s not funny!” he insisted in a hushed voice.  
  
         “Yes it is - it’s _hilarious_!” John chuckled with no attempt to lower his voice while throwing off the sheet Paul had insisted he cover himself with and thus exposing his naked body.   He spread his legs lewdly, pulling them up by the knees.  “Now come back here and finish what you started!”   
  


*****

  
  
        The show that night was great, but Paul felt he had dragged himself through it as if it was a dance marathon.  _Note to self:  no physically demanding sex with John before concerts in future._ He lolled back in the limo, and allowed his head to fall on Linda’s shoulder.  John was seated on his other side, gazing out of the window as they drove through the foggy night "on their way home".  _Two of Us_.   That’s a song they had struck off the playlist.  Honestly, they could do three different playlists with all different songs and still would have great songs left over.  How lucky to have such a catalog.  Well, Paul admitted, _luck_ had little to do with it.  Hard work, years of experience and perseverance, and talent – that’s what it took to stay on top for years, once you had “made it”.    He lifted his head and looked over at John, who looked dreamy.  Paul watched him quietly for a few moments.  John was so beautiful.  Lately, every part of John was priceless to Paul.  How had he not noticed this before?  He had been so busy rationalizing his sexual attraction to John that he hadn’t allowed himself to understand what it _was_ about John that attracted him.  And now he was beginning to understand:  it was _everything_ about John that attracted him.  
  
         As if he could hear what Paul was thinking, John turned from the window and met Paul’s eyes.  What he saw in Paul’s eyes filled his heart with hope.  What he saw was – was it really?  Was it – _adoration_?  John’s heart skipped a beat – as corny as he knew that sounded – and he allowed his face to show his reciprocated feelings.  He saw Paul’s face melting a bit into one of his secret smiles.  John hadn’t thought it was possible that the two of them could ever be any closer than they already were, but apparently he was wrong.  In that moment he saw an open door into Paul’s heart, and he imagined himself going through it.  So Paul would be spending the night with Linda – physically.  But in that moment John knew where Paul’s heart would be, and that is why he smiled as he turned to gaze out the window again.  
  


*****

  
  
        Paris.  He was alone in Paris with Paul again.  Oh yeah, him and Paul and all the thousands of people who stared at them wherever they went.  This was the place where his love affair with Paul had started not quite 30 years ago, and he was interested in exploring some of these new feelings Paul appeared to be finally acknowledging.  He turned from the rain-kissed window where he had been gazing down to the wet and shiny streets below, and looked over to the sofa where Paul sat.  One leg was laying straight on the coffee table, and the other leg was on the floor.  One arm was splayed out beside him with a remote control in its hand, and the other was bent over his head.  He was watching television with half-open eyes, and his black hair, with a few silver streaks, was a messy mane against the sofa cushions.  John moved in to the room and sat in a chair close to Paul.  
         
         “What’re you watching?” he asked casually, his eyes not leaving Paul’s face.  
  
         “Hmm?  Oh, geesh, I don’t know.  They’re speaking _French_!”  Paul’s expression was of a clueless clown, and John chuckled in response.  Paul moved his hand with the remote control and clicked off the television, dropping the remote on the cushion beside him and meeting John’s frank eyes with questioning ones.   John saw that expression as an invitation.  
  
         “It’s weird, living together fulltime like this again,” John said.  
  
         “Again?”  Paul wasn’t quite sure what John meant by that.  
  
         “Like when we were Beatles.”  
  
         “Ahhh…yeah…I see your point.  But I think it is kind of cool, not weird,” Paul said.  His eyes looked warm and loving.  
  
         “We never have to explain why we share a hotel suite when we’re touring,” John pointed out.  “It is kind of strange that people think it is normal for us to do that when we’re touring, but they’d think it was queer if we were just on vacation.”  John had been thinking about the vagaries of social appearances that day.  
  
         “I never thought of it that way,” Paul mused.  “But, I suppose you’re right.  Anyway, they’re not gossiping about us in that way lately.”  
  
         “It’s because we look so butch in those waiter outfits.”  
  
         Paul barked with laughter at that joke.  “We’re in Paris – we should get something to wear that is less – what’s the word?”  
  
         “Queer?”  John’s face looked overly helpful.  
  
         “Oh, I see - it’s laugh-a-line-with-Lennon today,” Paul chuckled.  
  
         “We’ve got a few hours before the show…”  
  
         “No, John.  Not before the show – only after.  The other night in London I barely made it through the show.  I was exhausted.  I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.”  
  
         “So Linda didn’t get any?” John asked, pushing his luck.  
  
         “Not that night.  But maybe in the morning…” Paul’s eyes were twinkling.  
  
         “You talk like that to torture me,” John growled.  But he was smiling inside.  He now believed that he knew who had the upper hand over Paul, and it wasn’t Linda.  But, being selfish and a bit greedy, he wanted to push for an admission.  “You know how jealous I am about you doing it with her.”  
  
         Paul was actually surprised by this proclamation.  “You are?  I thought you were…”  
  
         “Over it?  No – I’ve gotten used to it, I guess.  I accept it.  But it still makes me crazy with jealousy.”  John’s eyes were sparking with emotion, and Paul was staring at them in a state of fascinated surprise.  
  
         “I didn’t realize…”  
  
         “I know you don’t, and I shouldn’t have said anything.  It’s just that sometimes I need acknowledgement.”  
  
         “For what?”  Paul was utterly amazed now.  These words coming out of John’s mouth were utterly unexpected.  It had been a very long time since John had expressed such feelings to him.  
  
         “For the sacrifice I make to be with you,” John said succinctly.  
  
         Paul was silent, and his face grew worried.  “I did say you could have other lovers, John,” Paul said softly, his guilt tweaking him.  
  
         “Yeah.  Women only, when you’re with Linda only, wearing condoms, not in our home…” John stopped for a moment while that sunk in and then continued.  “The list is long and complicated.  Add to that the fact that I don’t want some woman falling in love with me and expecting more out of me than I’m willing to give, so I can’t really establish an actual relationship with someone.  And I just feel too _old_ to keep on doing the one-night-stands.  So far, I’ve refrained from _that_ indignity anyway.”  There was a touch of warning in his voice when he said “so far”.  
  
         Paul’s face had lost its accessibility, and the bland mask had fallen down over it.  John cursed under his breath.  He had wanted to push Paul into making a deeper verbal commitment to him, but – as usual – he had gone about it in a ham-fisted manner.  Paul finally said, carefully, “Do you want another relationship?  Is that what you are trying to tell me?”  
  
         John sighed heavily.  “No!  I’m trying to tell you that I have made sacrifices to be with you, and I don’t regret them.  But I just wish I could feel that I mean as much to you as you do to me!”  
  
         Paul felt lost.  He wasn’t quite sure how things had taken this turn.  Just lately he had felt closer to John than he ever had, and it even had started to scare him a little – the intensity of his feelings.   Was it possible that John didn’t know how much he was loved? The words were on his lips - _you mean the world to me_ – but for whatever reason, they wouldn’t come out.  He felt around for something to say that was less revealing but would do the trick.  “I love you, John, and I’m grateful to have you in my life.  I don’t know what else to say.  I guess I could say thank you for making this sacrifice…”  
  
         “I don’t want your gratitude, Paul, just tell me how you feel.  That’s all I want.”  John’s voice sounded almost as though he were pleading.  
  
         “I love you, that’s how I feel.”  Paul was confused and didn’t know what John wanted of him.  
  
         John could see that this was the most he was going to get out of Paul, so he let him off the hook.  He smiled and said, “I love you too.”  He then dropped the subject, and, looking at the ornate clock on the elaborate mantelpiece said – “Look at the time!  We need to get ready to go!”  
  
         Paul was grateful for the distraction, and jumped up and headed for the bedroom to freshen up.  John watched him go and was feeling his mood drop perilously close to a depression.  He began to doubt his earlier feelings of triumph and confidence.  He must have misread Paul’s expressions, and been wrong about Paul’s feelings for him being stronger than his feelings for Linda.  In fact, he felt the kind of pain a person does who repeatedly plays with a sore tooth, invoking pain with every stroke; at any time he could stop poking at it, but somehow the pain reminded him that he was alive.  
  


*****

  
  
        The Parisian audience felt like a giant living, breathing organism to Paul as the strains of _Long and Winding Road_ slowly waned.  The first part of the show had been less easy for Paul than it had been in previous concerts, because the strange conversation with John was hanging over it like a dark cloud.  Still, he was a pro and he knew he had done a credible imitation of a man totally delighted to be there performing for the crowd.  He looked over to John to see if John was ready for the next song, and John nodded.  No – he didn’t nod.  It was a _virtual_ nod that only Paul could see.  So Paul began the first few piano chords to _A Friend of Dorothy’s_.  That song had proven to be just the right one to play after two serious power ballads.  John sang the song with such hilarious physicality that he soon had the audience laughing and singing along.  Paul noticed the rainbow flags and the naughty signs popping up all over the place and had to laugh.  It seems that John was right: people took the song as more of an _homage_ to gay people than a comment on his and John’s personal relationship.  
  
         John was literally inhabiting the lively song, and enjoying the provocative nature of it.  He was sure there were hundreds of uncomfortable husbands and boyfriends out there, dragged to the show by their women or locked in the ‘70s, who were having a hard time stomaching the riotous scene around them – what with the rainbow banners and the huge posters featuring questionable drawings and sayings everywhere.  John the artist was never happier than when he was putting cats in amongst the pigeons.  But even as he sang and enjoyed the audience on one level, in the back of his mind he was still worried about what he had laid on Paul that afternoon.  _Why do I do things I don’t mean to do?  Why do I say things I don’t mean to say?  What devil gets in me to stir things up just as soon as it appears that things are going well_?  
  
         The audience was cheerfully waving flags and posters and shouting unintelligible chants as _Dorothy_ ended.  Paul climbed down from the piano, and began to strap on his bass as the audience continued to demonstrate.  In a moment, as the idiosyncratic bass began to pulse out a familiar counter-melody the more feminine cheering of the audience turned into a roar of masculine approval.   Paul stepped up to the mic and began to sing.  
  


_I've got a feeling, a feeling deep inside_   
_I've got a feeling, a feeling I can't hide_   
_Oh no, no, oh no, oh no_   
_Yeah, I've got a feeling!_

  
Paul could barely hear himself over the roar of the crowd.  Soon the crowd was singing along.  He sang louder.  
  


_Oh please believe me, I'd hate to miss the train_   
_Oh yeah, yeah, oh yeah_   
_And if you leave me, I won't be late again_   
_Oh no, oh no, oh no_   
_Yeah, yeah, I've got a feeling,_   
_yeahI got a feeling!_

  
Paul took a deep breath.  He knew the next part was going to tax his breathing and his voice.  
  


_All these years I've been wandering around_   
_Wondering how come nobody told me_   
_All that I've been looking for_   
_Was somebody  
Who looked like you!_

The bass did a loud bump, and then John joined in on harmony.  
  


_I've got a feeling that keeps me on my toes_   
_Oh yeah, oh yeah_   
_I've got a feeling I think that everybody knows_   
_Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah_   
_Yeah, yeah I've got a feeling!_

  
Paul dropped out, and John took over the chorus.  
  


_Everybody had a hard year_   
_Everybody had a good time_   
_Everybody had a wet dream_   
_Everybody saw the sunshine_   
_Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah_

_Everybody had a good year_   
_Everybody let their hair down_   
_Everybody pulled their socks up_   
_Everybody put their foot down_   
_Oh yeah_

As John began to repeat the chorus, Paul jumped in on the main melody again.  
  


_(I've got a feeling) Everybody had a good year_   
_(A feeling deep inside) Everybody had a hard time_   
_(Oh yeah) Everybody had a wet dream_   
_(Oh yeah) Everybody saw the sunshine_   
_(I've got a feeling) Everybody had a good year_   
_(A feeling I can't hide) Everybody let their hair down_   
_(Oh no) Everybody pulled their socks up_   
_(Oh no no) Everybody put their foot down,_   
_oh yeah!_   
_(I've got a feeling!I got a feeling!_   
_Oh yeahI got a feeling, yeah!)_

        The audience had been singing as one, and it had energized both Paul and John.  They both forgot – at least for the moment – about their sort-of tiff before the show, and jumped into the R&B section of the show whole-heartedly.  Their next song was Paul’s solo song from 1980, _On the Way._ The sharp, snippy lead guitar led him into the song, and as he sang it he thought to himself how appropriate it was, under the circumstances.  When he got to the lines,  “ _Well, you know I’ll always love you_ ” and “ _I hope you don’t mind the things I say, on the way_ …” Paul let his eyes shift sideways to where John was standing a few feet away.  John had both his feet planted in that stance that only he could carry off so well, and he was facing Paul and watching Paul’s face.  As the words came out Paul allowed an intimate smile to touch his eyes, just for John’s benefit, and was rewarded with one of John’s signature full wattage beam smiles.  It warmed Paul’s soul again, and he found it easier to get himself wholly into the performance.

         The audience may have felt the reconnection between the two performers, because it too seemed to relax and give itself over to the evening.  _Let Me Roll It_ was next, and the audience had a surprise in store for it.   Whenever the song started everyone in previous concerts had expected to hear Paul sing.  So it was a great surprise to them – just as it was to hear John singing _Maybe I’m Amazed_ – when John starting singing it.  Paul loved the way John sang the song, and allowed himself to just get into the groove of his instrument and watch John while he literally _devoured_ the song.  A second surprise was in store for the audience:  the _Let Me Roll It_ riff melted into John’s solo song, _Beef Jerky_.  The musicians went to town, with John making the uninhibited shouts and sounds that somehow energized the other musicians and the audience.  Then the music melted back into the _Let Me Roll It_ verse, but this time Paul was singing lead.  On this particular night, Paul almost missed his cue, because he was staring at John in wonder. John was such an incredible talent.  Paul couldn’t stop marveling at it as each concert ticked by.  Time after time he would find himself just watching John and feeling so fucking lucky to be the one to share his creative life.        

  It was time to sing another new song, and this particular song was the trickiest one they’d chosen to perform.  It was trickier even than _A Friend of Dorothy’s_.  This song was, in truth, a set of lyrics John and Paul had written together to spoof their personalities, and their different reactions and approaches to being each other’s lover.   When they had written it, Paul had tried to convince John to camouflage the song by using the female gender, as in _You Want Her To_, to make the song more clearly about two men arguing over the same woman.  But John had called him a – _what were the words? – prissy-assed chicken, that was it_ – and this had shamed Paul into dropping that idea.  So instead the lyrics were not altered to hide the true meaning and were performed as is.  So far, however, only the clearly gay members of the audience seemed to catch on to what it was about.  Paul knew this because whenever they sang this song out would come the rainbow banners and naughty signs again.  The two of them sang the song in tandem, as if they were having an actual conversation.  _Oh, well, here goes…_ Paul told himself, and jumped right in after the anxiety-inducing guitar intro.

 

Paul:                            _You make me go so wrong_.  
John:                                    ( _yeah you kept me awake you know you did_ )  
Paul:                            _I’ve loved you oh so long._  
John:                                    _(so why don't you come right out and say it, stupid)?_

Paul:                            _You make me do things I don't want to do,_  
 _I don't know why I should be telling you_  
 _I know that you want it too!_  
Paul:                            _My intentions are quite sincere,_  
John:                                    _(that's not what you said the other night)_  
Paul:                            _And all you can do is sneer,_  
John:                                    _(go ahead and kid yourself you're right)_

Paul:                            _You make me do things I don't want to do,_  
 _I don't know why I should be telling you_  
 _I know that you want it too!_

John:                                    ( _I’ve got a better chance than you do,)_  
Paul:                            _I know that you want it too!_

John:                                    _(You’re such a hopeless romantic)_  
Paul:                            _You told me I’m so predictable and nice,_  
 _But I only did you a favor once or twice!_  
John, shocked:           ( _Once or twice?!?)_

                  [Loud audience reaction]

Paul:                            _You make me go so wrong._  
John:                                 _(so why don't you lie back and enjoy it)?_

                  [Loud audience reaction]

Paul:                            _My conscience is clear and strong_  
John:                                    _(yes, I’d say you’re just the boy for it)._

                  [Loud audience reaction]

Paul:                            _You make me do things I don't want to do,_  
 _I don't know why I should be telling you_  
 _I know that you want it too,_  
 _I know that you want it too,_  
 _I know that you want it too!_

 

*****

       You couldn’t exactly say that they made up that night; it was more like they both decided to pretend the difficult words between them had never happened.  This suited John, because it meant he wouldn’t have to apologize for his behavior, and this suited Paul, because he wouldn’t have to explain his.   Instead of hashing it out, they both climbed into bed and fell into a warm, loving embrace.  They gently kissed each other, and their fingers traced designs on each other’s backs and arms.  Little did John know that his actions were a moving apology and were received as such by Paul.  And little did Paul know that his actions were the best possible way to express how he really felt, and were received as such by John.  In this admittedly indirect (and possibly not very healthy) way they managed to put the issue behind them.  For the time being at least.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tour continues, and this time they're in Hamburg.

         Their flight landed in Hamburg shortly before 2 a.m.  They had finished their concert in Brussels (and the brief partying afterwards) by midnight, and now were straggling into the Hotel Kempinski followed by doormen with luggage carts.  This was a much nicer hotel than the places they’d stayed back in the day.  For one thing, they were nowhere near the Reeperbahn.  Their hotel suite was sumptuous, and Paul went directly to the balcony to cast his eye over the cityscape.  John joined him there.  
  
         “We’re here in considerably more style than before,” Paul said to John softly, as John, too, leaned against the wrought iron railing.  
  
         “Remember the Bambi Kino?” John chuckled.    _“Oh! Oh! Oh!”_ John imitated a Nazi in the throes of an orgasm.  
  
         “We got it in stereo,” Paul joined in.  “ _Oh! Oh! Oh_!”  
  
         At the Bambi Kino they had been stuck in the middle between the movie screen on the other side of one wall (playing mainly German porn all night long), and the wall facing the alley on the other side, where the prossies used to get drilled by their johns.  
  
         “We should go visit the old haunts,” John suggested enthusiastically.  
  
         “Tomorrow night, though,” Paul said.  “I’m thoroughly wiped.” He turned to John with a warm light in his eyes.  “Let’s go to bed.”  And so they did.  
  


*****

  
  
        Their disguises were pretty lame, because they hadn’t thought ahead and didn’t have much to work with.  
  
         “I could wear that stupid white jacket,” John suggested.  “Maybe someone will spill something on it and ruin it and I won’t be able to wear it anymore.”  
  
         “ _Ahhh_ ,” Paul said, his face laden with disappointment, “I was just beginning to be fond of those jackets.”  
  
         “Typical,” John sneered, but in fun.  “You’re such a fruit, Macca.  You know that, don’t you?”  
  
         “That’s the orange calling the apple ‘ _fruit_ ’,” Paul responded jauntily, and John laughed at the hit.      
  
         They settled for overcoats, woolen scarves around their necks, and hats.  They stood in front of the floor length mirror in their bedroom and Paul opined, “Now we look like two dirty old men about to expose ourselves in the cinema.”  
  
         “Good,” John said.  “That’s exactly what’s called for in the Reeperbahn.”  
  
         They decided to approach the Reeperbahn via the metro train system.   It would be far less suspicious than rolling up in front of the tacky nightclubs in a limo or even a cab.  It was an adventure, with Paul desperately trying to remember his serviceable German.  (John had never really bothered to learn much, relying on Paul and George, and then later on their German friends to translate for him.)  There had been a lot of changes; some of their old clubs were now paeans to the Beatles.  While this was of course gratifying on one level, on another level it made the whole adventure seem more like a trip through Disneyland’s Main Street rather than dangerous dabbling in the dark arts of the night.  
  
         They finally found a club that looked promising on a dark, seedy alley off the main drag.  It had a mean looking bouncer standing out front, and there were no signs or indications that a club was there.  It was just that John and Paul had grown their wisdom teeth in areas like these, and knew a private (meaning _fun and outrageous_!) club when they saw one.  They ambled up to the bouncer and looked him up and down, and got in his face in their unnerving but somehow nonthreatening Beatle-way remembered from years past.  It had always worked in the past, and sure enough the bouncer started having a hard time meeting their eyes and looked a little confused and desperate.  John finally spoke.  
  
         “So, ya goin’ to let us in or not, _herr kapitan_!” John clicked his heels and saluted.  The bouncer didn’t know what this all meant, but he was beginning to be a little pissed off.  Seeing this, Paul jumped in.  
  
         “ _Wir sind Englisch_ ,” Paul said, and gave the man a sincere, apologetic smile and a charming shrug.  The man relaxed a bit.  “ _Sind wir wilkommen_?”  Paul’s face was adorably hopeful.  The man smiled broadly and opened the door for them.  
  
         John looked at Paul as if he was a bleeding genius, and then he moved forward into the club and down the basement stairs with patent enthusiasm.  Paul followed, wondering what madness lay within.  John had led him into dozens of such clubs in their early years, and Paul had followed willingly, although the things he had seen and experienced in those clubs were not what he had expected.  Nor were they anything he would ever describe to anyone else as long as he lived!  
  
         This club had the usual extremely dim lights.  It was difficult to see what people really looked like.   But it didn’t take too long before John and Paul both realized that everyone in there was a man.  They looked at each other with surprised delight, as if to say “ _eureka!_ ”  This was just dumb luck.  One of their secret pleasures back in the Hamburg days was to hang out in gay and transvestite clubs.  John had enjoyed dragging Paul in to them during their first few visits to Hamburg, because he hoped to give Paul ideas.  (It hadn’t worked; Paul ultimately had required a two by four to the head).  And Paul had enjoyed going in them, because it made him feel older and more like an equal to John.  And – okay, truth told - he was a bit titillated by what he saw there.  Of course he was.  Things had changed after their Paris interlude in October 1961, so when they next returned to Hamburg the gay club visits had a double purpose.  While it was people-watching at its extreme on one level, it was a chance for John and Paul to be lovers in public without anyone giving a shit.  Of course, _now_ it was different.  There were too many risks associated with them acting out their love in public unless they were extremely careful.  Still…being in this club and soaking up its atmosphere were perfect ways to celebrate being in Hamburg together again, and both men felt illicit excitement.  
  
         John indicated that they should move towards the bar to get drinks, and Paul nodded and followed.  They waited while others ordered and were served and then Paul ordered for them in his shaky German.  But his face was so adorable the bartender was indulgent.  _That one was going to get some action tonight_ , he predicted.  Paul only remembered how to order beer in German, so that is what they got.  They took their brews over to a corner for a moment to take stock of the place.  There was a kind of stage, well, it was a platform about 6 feet by 8 feet, in the back of the room, but the platform was empty at the moment.  A jukebox was blaring out aggressive German new wave music.   Men were dancing wildly, almost as if they were all dancing with each other simultaneously, and inarticulate cries and imprecations were shouted out randomly.  There was a rather pathetic strobe light attempting to mimic a laser, and several little tables around the sides with silhouetted men crouched over them.  It was bringing back memories to both John and Paul as they absorbed all these sights.  
  
         “Hasn’t changed much, has it?” John shouted into Paul’s ear.  Otherwise, Paul would not have heard him.  
  
         Paul shouted back in John’s ear, “Just as depressing as ever!”  John laughed and nodded in agreement.  
  
         “Yeah, but, no one gives a shit about us.  It’s like being invisible.  I like it.”  John’s shout in Paul’s ear was just loud enough for Paul to make it out.  He smiled at John to show that he felt the same, and then took a final gulp of his beer.  Having sized the place up, both men came to the conclusion that they were not recognized, would not be recognized, and perhaps not even noticed, and so they were “safe.”  
  
         “Wanna dance?” Paul asked, taking the bull by its horns, so to speak.  
  
         John was shocked that Paul had asked.  It had always been the other way around in the old days.  “Why yes, kind sir,” John shouted back.  Shouting kind of took the irony out of it, but Paul got the joke and laughed.  They moved towards the middle of the room, which was passing for a dance floor, and despite the loud energetic music, Paul wrapped John in his arms, and they began to dance slowly, romantically, with Paul in lead.  They were like an anomaly there in that scene, with everyone jumping and shouting around them, and them floating along on a romantic cloud, nose to nose, so clearly in love, as if hearing their own music.  It didn’t matter to them.  They were in public and they were showing affection for each other and they weren’t going to be held accountable for it.  This was a kind of heaven all by itself.  
  
         After awhile, Paul got them another round of beers, and they were able to secure a table after the former denizens finally abandoned it.  It was quite warm in the club what with all the gyrating bodies, and Paul took his overcoat off.  He knew he was wearing anonymous jeans and an anonymous long-sleeved t-shirt, so he wasn’t worried about being recognized in such a dark environment.  He and John had both long since taken their hats off.  Seeing Paul free himself from his overcoat, John followed suit.  
  
         “Well, _that_ feels better,” John shouted across the table.  Paul smiled and nodded.  
  
         Just then a man approached the microphone on the little “stage”, and, sitting on a stool, began to play a guitar.  The first song he did was a German folk song and everyone stopped dancing and started to sing along.  But then the singer started playing some chords, and Paul and John turned to look at each other in recognition.  The song was “ _You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away_.”  Both men were soon fighting off giggles, and, when they finally had gotten over the giggles, they leaned back to listen to the man singing the song in broken English.  It was one of those enchanted moments – the club was silent while the man sang.  His voice was charmingly off just a little bit, and his accent slaughtered some of the words.  But it was also touching and improbable to hear such a heartfelt rendition of a confessional song in that environment, and John and Paul took the whole thing in and filed it under the category _some of my weirdest but most wonderful memories_.  
  
         After the singer had finished his 20-minute set, John and Paul collected their coats, scarves and hats and headed for the door.  They had lost interest in the performance halfway through, but as performers themselves, couldn’t bring themselves to walk out on a guy while he was still singing.  The cold air in the alley hit them in their faces as they emerged from the dank cellar.  It felt fantastic.  Paul remembered to give the bouncer a generous tip, and, pulling their brims down, hands in pockets, they emerged back on the main drag.  
  
         “What now?”  Paul asked.  
  
         “Strip club?”  John suggested.  
  
         Paul laughed out loud and did a 360-degree turn, his head thrown back.  Only John Lennon would emerge from a gay dance club and head straight for a female strip club.  That is precisely what Paul loved about John Lennon, of course.  So they moved on down the road until they came to one that looked marginally less tacky than the others.  They looked at each other for affirmation, and receiving it, they squared their shoulders and went in.  The floor manager took their cover charges.  Paul paid of course, negotiating the language and the deutschmarks while John headed straight for the stripper platform.  He grabbed a stool, and gestured Paul over.   Paul, meanwhile, was busy ordering two coke and rums while using all sorts of gestures and a great deal of pointing (might as well go all-out on the march down memory lane).  He brought them over to the bar rail that surrounded the stripper platform.  
  
         That is when Paul finally noticed the rather exhausted-looking middle-aged woman on the stage who appeared to be suffering from lassitude.  She was moving around in a less than enticing manner on the stage.  Her little periodic kicks lacked conviction, and so did her sneer.  “Is it me, or did they used to look sexier?” Paul asked John in a conversational tone.  
  
         “Sexier than _‘er_ , that’s for sure,” John muttered, feeling let down.  “Let’s hope they bring out some new talent soon.”  
  
         Both men took a first sip of his rum and coke.  Paul choked and gagged, and John pushed the glass out in front of him and stared at it accusingly.  “Arghgh…” he said.  
  
         Paul laughed.  “We had some of these in New York a few years ago, remember?  _They_ didn’t taste this bad.”  
  
         “That fucking bouncer over there probably pissed in these,” John growled.  This whole strip club idea was turning out to be a bust.  Disgusted, he pushed the glass away.  “Go get me something drinkable.”  
  
         “I suspect beer is the best we can hope for here.  I’m not sure that bartender knows what the fuck he is doing,” Paul opined.  
  
         “Whatever,” John grumbled, waving Paul away.  Paul smirked and headed for the bar.  John was sinking in to one of his “iffy” moods, so unless things turned around soon, there may be mayhem in their future.  
  
         By the time Paul got back with the beers, the emaciated stripper was just about finished.  
  
         “Somebody shoot her, please, and put _me_ out of my misery,” John was groaning to himself.  
  
         She did a kind of twirl that apparently was her piece de resistance, and when no one clapped she sort of scuttled off the stage in ignominy.  After she was gone John started clapping in appreciation of her disappearance.  
  
         Paul was amused by John’s mood.   John was always at his most exciting just before the last straw broke his back.  Paul was always content to sit by and observe, and, of course, offer whatever minimal assistance he determined was necessary along the way.  
         
         Some honest-to-god ‘little Egypt’ music started, and out came three girls dressed like trashy shebas, but they were at least young and enthusiastic.  John perked up a little.  He started making hooting sounds and clapping, and this encouraged several other of the dispirited men around them to do likewise, albeit with a certain lack of enthusiasm, Paul noted.  Paul sat back, drank his beer, and enjoyed the show.  (By “the show” Paul meant watching John interacting with the strippers.)  Soon the girls noticed that John was their biggest fan, so they moved over in his direction, and pulled out all their best stuff.  Soon John had a wispy purple scarf around his neck, a see thru bra on his head, and even a pair of silky pantaloons draped over one arm.  By then he had imbibed six beers (three in each club), and was totally in the mood.   
  
         Paul found the whole scene entertaining, but when John started to climb up on to the platform to start stripping himself (Paul instinctively knew this was about to happen based on previous experience) Paul thought perhaps he should intervene.  He grabbed John by his waistband, and shoved him back in his seat.  Paul leaned in and whispered in John’s ear, “you don’t want to see this in the papers tomorrow, lad,” and stood up.  He took John’s arm and, in a good natured and long-suffering way persuaded John to divest himself of his borrowed clothes, and head towards the door.  Paul had just as many beers as John had, but he held his liquor better.  
  
         Out on the street again, there were no cabs in sight, so Paul, with John in tow, headed towards the metro station.  Thankfully, he finally found a rather sad looking taxi, and pushed John inside.  What the driver saw were two drunks in overcoats staggering off the Reeperbahn.  To say he was surprised to hear their destination – one of the ritziest and most expensive hotels in Hamburg – would be an understatement.   And his surprise was almost surpassed by that experienced by the doorman at the Hotel Kempinski, as a drunk and dazed Lennon and a drunk but determined McCartney piled out of a beat up taxi, dressed in overcoats, scarves and hats, and sailed past him.  At the last second he managed to remember to grab the door for them and bow.  McCartney gave him a cheeky grin and a saucy wink as he passed by.  
  


*****

  
  
        The Hamburg crowd was hot and loud.  John looked out over the excited shouting faces and lit up from inside.  They had just finished a raucous rendition of _You Want It Too_.  Apparently there was a large gay contingent in this audience, because the rainbow flags and naughty posters had nearly taken over the floor seat area.   John turned to his right and saw Paul at his mic, just 6 feet away.  It felt really strong to be facing the crowd with Paul.  He was such an incredible performer, and always had the right energy to match the crowd.  It was as if he sucked it up by osmosis and “became” the crowd.   Paul turned and met John’s eye and smiled.  He then waited a short 3-beat and then began singing one of their new songs, _Tug of War_.  This song was the lead in to a series of songs on serious topics – some of them were political, and some of them were personal.  They had prepared eight such songs, but played only four per concert.  Tonight’s lineup was about to start.  
  
         After _Tug of War_ ended, John stepped up to the microphone.  Without further ado, he then leaned in to the microphone and began to sing:

_She's not a girl who misses much_   
_Do do do do do do, oh, yeah_   
_She's well acquainted_   
_With the touch of the velvet hand_   
_Like a lizard on a window pane_   
_The man in the crowd with the_   
_Multicolored mirrors on his hobnail boots_   
_Lying with his eyes_   
_While his hands are busy working overtime_   
_A soap impression of his wife_   
_Which he ate and donated to the National Trust_

At this point Paul joined in, singing not in harmony but as a second voice in the same key:

_I need a fix cause I'm going down_   
_Down to the abyss that I left uptown_   
_I need a fix cause I'm going down_

_Mother Superior jump the gun_   
_Mother Superior jump the gun_   
_Mother Superior jump the gun_   
_Mother Superior jump the gun_   
_Mother Superior jump the gun_   
_Mother Superior jump the gun_

Now, Paul switched from second voice to high harmony, but he sang his bit on every other line with John’s lead, Paul singing the sound effects and John singing the words:

_Happiness is a warm gun_   
_(Bang bang, shoot shoot)_   
_Happiness is a warm gun mama_   
_(Bang bang, shoot shoot)_

_When I hold you in my arms_   
_(Oh yeah)_   
_And I feel my finger on your trigger_   
_(Ooo, oh yeah)_   
_I know nobody can do me no harm_   
_(Ooo, oh yeah)_   
_Because happiness is a warm gun mama_   
_(Bang bang, shoot shoot)_

_Happiness is a warm gun, yes it is_   
_(Bang bang, shoot shoot)_   
_Happiness is a warm - yes it is – gun!_   
_(Happiness, bang bang, shoot shoot)_   
_Well, don't you know that happiness is a warm gun, mama_   
_(Happiness is a warm gun yeah)_

  
        The audience had clearly appreciated this song, and had quieted down, ready to hear some more serious subjects in music.  It had been interesting to note that audiences everywhere had quieted right down and seemed eager and anticipatory about these serious songs.  Of course, they’d been smart enough to start with 4 stompers, 2 power ballads, 1 goofy fun song, and 4 R&B songs before quieting the audience down for some seriously written songs.  
  
         As soon as John finished singing, the drums and guitar strokes began for _However Absurd_ , another one of their new songs; this one was very thought provoking.  Paul stepped forward to sing the lead on this one:

_Ears twitch,_   
_Like a dog,_   
_Breaking eggs in a dish._   
_Do not mock me when I say_   
_This is not a lie._   
_No, it isn't._

_It's a funny thing,_   
_Half serious,_   
_With our hands on our ears._   
_Living dreams with mouths ajar,_   
_Wide awake we go to sleep._

_However absurd,_   
_However absurd it may seem._   
_However absurd,_   
_However absurd it may seem._

_Something special between us,_   
_When we made love the game was over._   
_I couldn't say the words,_   
_Words wouldn't get my feelings through,_   
_And so I keep talking to you._

_However absurd,_   
_However absurd it may seem._   
_However absurd,_   
_However absurd it may seem._

_Custom made,_   
_Dinosaurs,_   
_Too late now for a change._   
_Ev'rything is under the sun_   
_But nothing is for keeps._

_However absurd,_   
_However absurd it may seem._   
_However absurd,_   
_However absurd that may seem..._

  
       The strains of this song played out to a surprisingly strong reception (they were never too sure about how their new songs would be received, but thus far had been pleasantly surprised).    
  
       Paul played a few piano chords and then the tempo immediately pumped up with simple guitar, bass and drums, and John launched into his solo song, _Crippled Inside_.  Paul really liked the vibe of this song, and played the piano as if he were in an old western saloon.  This provided a kind of cockeyed bouncy rhythm to the song.  John clearly appreciated it, turning to grin at Paul every few minutes as he sang.  The playing encouraged John’s singing to bounce along in much the same way as the piano.  By the end of the song, the audience seemed to be one head nodding in time.   Paul could see the sweat rolling down John’s face, and then realized the same was happening to himself.  The weird thing was – he didn’t care!  Let the sweat roll; he’d be sweaty and feel icky once the show was over, but it would only be a short time before he could hit the shower.  So he “let it be”.   
  


*****

  
  
        The next morning, John awoke first.  His head was resting on Paul’s chest, and Paul’s chest was lifting up and down in a steady sleep rhythm.  John smiled a little as he remembered where he was.  Hamburg.  They had decided to stay there one more night, and travel to their next city today because...well, just _because_.  John thought back on the last few weeks. After Paris, they had killed their audiences one night in Amsterdam and one night in Brussels.  Now they were moving on to West Berlin.  Their flight wasn’t for a few hours, so John just rubbed his head around on Paul’s chest for a few rotations, just to make himself more comfortable, and a close-mouthed smile lit his face.  Being on tour with Paul meant that once they went into their suite at night, everyone and everything else disappeared, and all that was left was him and his Paul.  It was like heaven.  He allowed his right hand to stroke Paul’s stomach.  It followed the hair trail down from Paul’s chest, down his stomach, and to his loins.  It was like an ever-thinning “V”.  John had always been enamored of this particular aspect of Paul’s physical architecture.  It was as if the hair trail was leading the observer down to Paul’s groin, like a pointing arrow.  _What a delightful trait_!  John smiled as he thought this.  His hand had made it to the pelvic area, and then it gently moved down ever lower to Paul’s penis and balls, cupping them all in one hand.  Paul’s cock was fairly small when it was flaccid, but when it was aroused – watch out!  In fact, that was a good metaphor for Paul:  he seemed kind of a lightweight on the surface, but underneath there were some pretty fast running currents, and survival in Paul’s life wasn’t for the inexperienced or faint of heart.  
  
         “ _Ohhhhhh…_ ” A deep, soft, growling sound suddenly emerged from Paul’s throat.  He still wasn’t really awake.  It was like he was stuck in dreamland, but was beginning to slowly wake up.  It was fun for John to watch Paul’s face as he was sleeping, but slowly waking up.  John was rubbing and squeezing Paul’s penis and balls very, very, gently.  John was on his side, his head rested on his palm, his elbow akimbo and on the bed.  He was watching Paul’s face for that first cognizant recognition that his private parts were being manipulated.   There was a mischievous twinkle in John’s eye while he gently squeezed his lover’s sack.  John’s eyes were locked on Paul’s half-closed eyes when suddenly Paul’s eyelids flew open.  Now they were staring at each other in a lazy, seductive way.  
  
         _John has my balls in a grip_ , Paul thought, and it felt fantastic.  John seemed to understand the exact amount of pressure to use to hold his various privates without being painful.  Paul managed to convey his pleasure in this most special of John’s unusual talents through his eyes.  John did pick this up, and smiled back, acknowledging his understanding by squeezing Paul’s cock and balls a little harder this time.  
  
         Paul allowed his eyes to soften and then his lips met that softening, and raised it.  John had a silent laugh as he saw the mischief fleet across Paul’s face.  What a wonderfully expressive face his lover had.  No one on earth could be so fascinating to watch!  John could sit there for hours just watching that face.  Almost every thought Paul had would flit across his face, and only John could read the signals.  John was pretty sure that Linda could not possibly understand the myriad of tiny muscles in Paul’s face, and how they were connected to Paul’s subtlest emotions.  But John did.  He had whole conversations with Paul without either of them ever opening his mouth.  
  
         “Good morning, John,” Paul finally said, with one eyebrow raised and a twinkle in his eye.  “Is there something you need from me?”  
  
         John’s chuckle was evil.  “I was hoping you’d use a little imagination,” he said and wiggled both eyebrows.  
  
         Paul cracked up.  “I can’t take you seriously when you wiggle your eyebrows, mate,” Paul finally said.  “I’m trying to be serious, but it’s too funny.”  
  
         “I _was_ being serious!” John’s voice was indignant but the grin on his face kind of spoiled it.  
  
         “No, you weren’t!”  Paul’s response was a cry of outrage, his voice at his upper range, and John was laughing full out now.   “Ooh!” Paul yelped, as John gave him a strong tug on his privates.  
  
         “I’ll _make_ you serious,” John threatened with amusement dancing in his eyes.   John lifted himself up and over so he was straddling Paul’s hips and began working Paul’s cock with a firm hand rhythm, slow and steady.  
  
         “Oh, you’re playin’ with me now,” Paul’s voice was a very sexy growl.  John loved when Paul spoke in his lower registry.  Paul’s eyes never left John’s as the hand job went on.  When John felt he had Paul’s full attention, he moved himself down between Paul’s legs, and allowed his mouth to take over from his hand.  The groan out of Paul’s throat sounded as if it were coming from heaven.  John heard a hoarse whisper, and it took a while for him to recognize the words.  “ _Don’t stop_.”  John had no intention of stopping.  Instead, he increased his pace.  Paul seemed to appreciate John’s dedication, so he kept at it.  Paul’s cock had grown exponentially in his mouth, and John was diligent about covering every inch of it with his saliva.  John had just decided that this morning’s session was going to be all about Paul.  So frequently Paul had made it all about John, so he wanted to return the favor.  
  
         Paul felt his cock getting harder and hotter, and he decided to just relax and let John do his thing.  _What a great way to wake up in the morning_ , he was thinking to himself.  As Paul’s needs became ever more urgent, John’s sucking became faster and tighter, until Paul was writhing from the sensations.  Paul wanted to hold out longer, but he found he couldn’t.  The rush from his loins surprised him more than it did John, who had felt the pulsing and was ready for the burst of gism in his mouth.  John continued to suckle and Paul was bucking until the very end of his orgasm.  His body was then fully relaxed, and he barely noticed as John pulled himself back up Paul’s body until his face was hovering over Paul’s face.  John took the side of Paul’s face in his two hands, and leaned down and kissed him deeply.  Paul tasted the sour and salt of his own come on John’s tongue, and this never failed to cause his ego to swell.  No one gave head like John gave head, and Paul was secretly proud of the fact that he – Paul – was the one John wanted to blow.  
  


*****

  
  
        The flight from Hamburg to West Berlin was short and easy.   Little did John and Paul know as they were transported to their hotel that in about a year the Berlin Wall would be coming down, and that shortly after that, East and West Germany would be reunified.   On this tour visit the Wall was still there, and it could be seen from their hotel balcony, with all the colorful graffiti and drawings covering the western side of the Wall.  There were no graffiti and drawings on the eastern side.  
  
         During the Berlin concert, John and Paul sang four different songs about serious subjects.  First up was Lady Madonna, a song about a woman who sold her body to feed her children.  Paul’s loud piano riff to start it off got the audience going.  John thought Paul often cloaked his most provocative lyrics in bouncy, sing-along music, _Maxwell’s Silver Hammer_ (about the tabloid press led by Robert Maxwell), and _Obla Di Obla Da_ (about the silliness of assigning gender roles) being two other examples.  John hadn’t figured this out until years after the Beatles had ended.  When they were recording the songs he thought they were “nonsense” and had fought Paul the whole way.   He had complained about the money spent, and the time it took.  He didn’t understand why Paul was spending so much time on songs that didn’t make sense.  Older and wiser now, John found that he actually loved all those songs, if for no other reason than Paul had all the squares happily singing along with these subversive lyrics.  Still, part of John’s disdain about the songs was based on his own belief that you should be brave and obvious about your beliefs, and just shout them out for everyone to hear, so there would be no misunderstanding.  In John’s mind, Paul was hiding his beliefs behind elaborate disguises.    Still, John had to admit that Paul’s ‘message’ songs had been far more successful in reaching a broader audience and becoming part of the social fabric than had his own ‘message’ songs.  John supposed that there was something to that old saw _you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar._  
  
         All that may be true, John thought, but next he stepped up to the mic to sing one of his hit-you-in-the-face vinegary songs:

_Mother, you had me but I never had you_   
_I wanted you, you didn't want me_   
_So I, I just got to tell you_   
_Goodbye, goodbye_

_Father, you left me but I never left you_   
_I needed you, you didn't need me_   
_So I, I just got to tell you_   
_Goodbye, goodbye_

_Children, don't do what I have done_   
_I couldn't walk and I tried to run_   
_So I, I just got to tell you_   
_Goodbye, goodbye_

_Mama, don't go_   
_Daddy, come home_   
_Mama, don't go_   
_Daddy, come home…_

  
        As the painful sounds of John singing his guts out were still lingering, Paul began to play the complicated picked chords of _Blackbird,_ and the audience – which had sat silent and transfixed during _Mother_ – spontaneously erupted in cheers when it heard the familiar chords from Paul’s guitar.  Up on the stage, John – who was standing off to the side a little, watching Paul do his magic - could hear the audience was singing with Paul all through the song, and the sound was beautiful since the guitar was the only instrument playing.  It echoed around the arena.  
  
         It was John’s turn to rip people’s hearts out again, and he proceeded to do so with _Cold Turkey_.  The audience went wild, and the headbangers amongst it went in to full throttle moshing mode down on the floor.    John was so wrapped up in the song – he had to throw himself into it and it took a lot out of him, which is why he didn’t want to sing it in every concert – that he didn’t notice the moshing, but Paul did, and he stood back banging on his bass for all he was worth while quietly chuckling to himself at the antics of the kids in the front rows.  It reminded him a little bit of being back in clubs, where sometimes the blokes and even the girls would get in physical fights over who got to stand in the front row.  
  
         The cries, groans and whimpers of _Cold Turkey_ came to a punishing end, and the audience was always exhausted at that point.  To pour oil over the wound, and to sooth the pain, Paul climbed back up to the piano and waited a theatrical moment before starting to sing:

_When I find myself in times of trouble_   
_Mother Mary comes to me_   
_Speaking words of wisdom,_   
_Let it be_

_And in my hour of darkness_   
_She is standing right in front of me_   
_Speaking words of wisdom,_   
_Let it be_

_Let it be, let it be_   
_Let it be, let it be_   
_Whisper words of wisdom_   
_Let it be_

_And when all the brokenhearted people_   
_Living in the world agree_   
_There will be an answer,_   
_Let it be_

_For though they may be parted_   
_There is still a chance that they will see_   
_There will be an answer,_   
_Let it be_

_Let it be, let it be_   
_Let it be, let it be_   
_Yeah, there will be an answer_   
_Let it be_

_Let it be, let it be_   
_Let it be, let it be_   
_Whisper words of wisdom_   
_Let it be_

_And when the night is cloudy_   
_There is still a light that shines on me_   
_Shine on until tomorrow,_   
_Let it be_

_I wake up to the sound of music_   
_Mother Mary comes to me_   
_Speaking words of wisdom,_   
_Let it be_

_Yeah, let it be, let it be…_


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Other Shoe Drops (and its loud!)

         After West Berlin, John and Paul had performed to equally ecstatic crowds in Munich, Vienna and Zurich.  They were now 14 concerts and about 60 days into their tour.  They had left Zurich at 1 a.m., and had made it to Rome in less than 2 hours, and not long after that they were pulling up in their limo to the magnificent Grand Hotel de la Minerve in Rome’s old city center.  It wasn’t until they checked in that John learned that two suites had been booked in the hotel.  As they were going up in the elevator John was glaring at Paul suspiciously.  _What was going on_?  He waited for the footman to precede them with the luggage cart into the first suite, and then hissed fiercely in Paul’s ear.  
  
         “Why _two_ suites?  What’s going on?”  
  
         Paul looked uneasy.  “I mentioned this a few days ago – Linda and the kids are joining us for the next few days, while we’re here in Rome.”  
        
         “I don’t remember you mentioning this!”  John had stopped Paul in mid-hall and was insisting that he listen to him.  His voice had risen a little, and Paul was shushing him.  John hated it when Paul shushed him.  This usually only caused him to get louder.  
  
         “We were in Vienna,” Paul replied.  “You were on the sofa reading a magazine.”  
  
         “ _Asleep_ more like!  You’re a fucking chicken sometimes!  Waiting until I’m asleep to tell me!” John whispered furiously.  
  
         “You said ‘ _okay’_ , so you weren’t asleep.  You probably weren’t listening to me, which, by the way, happens quite frequently.”  Now Paul’s whisper was getting huffy.  “But she’s not arriving until tomorrow, so I thought I’d stay with you tonight.  Unless I’m not welcome?”  
  
         John shook his head and mumbled something nasty under his breath, but he grabbed Paul’s arm and dragged him down the rest of the hall to his suite.  Paul paid the footman a generous tip for delivering the luggage, and then took delivery of the keys.  As the footman left the suite, Paul walked over and found the connecting door, and unlocked it.  “They’re connecting suites, John,” Paul said softly.  “We’ll all be in and out of each other’s rooms so you won’t be off by yourself all alone,” he added apologetically.  
  
         John still looked pouty and miserable, so Paul walked over and took John in his arms.  Paul’s hand went to the back of John’s head, and gently pushed it down on to his shoulder.  Paul said softly to the side of John’s face, “There never would have been a good time to tell you this news, John.  I realize that.  Ever since what you told me when we were in Paris – I didn’t realize until then that my being with Linda still bothered you so much.  I wish there was some way I could make this all easier for you, but I’m all out of ideas.  Do you have any?”  
  
         John shook his head ‘ _no_ ’, but didn’t move.  He held on to Paul a little longer, and then slowly pushed himself free.  “I’m really tired, Paul.  Let’s go to bed.  We can hash this out in the morning.”  
  
         “Ok, but Linda and the kids will be here just before lunchtime,” Paul said warningly.  
  
         John nodded in bleak understanding, and began to strip off his clothes.  Paul soon followed.  That night they didn’t have sex.  John was feeling too depressed, Paul was feeling too guilty, and they were both feeling very tried from the night’s concert and air travel.  Paul held John all night long in a loving spoon, periodically hugging John tightly to remind John that everything would be okay in the end.  
  


*****

  
  
       Paul awoke a bit late the next morning, and he sprang up as if he’d been goosed when he realized he was probably oversleeping.  He had gotten used to sleeping in while on this tour with John, and his inner alarm clock was a bit rusty.  He had a panicked feeling that at any moment Linda would walk in the door of their next-door suite.  He grabbed the bedside clock and was a little relieved to find it was only 10:45 a.m.  Paul had feared it was much later.  His hand grabbed his chest as his breathing slowly went back to normal.  He looked over to his right and John was sound asleep, flat on his stomach, his head to the side, mouth open, with the sound of a light snore being emitted from his head area.  Paul smiled in spite of himself.  John could sleep through a fucking brass band parade.  He pushed his covers aside, moved naked to his overnight suitcase, and bent over to get his fresh clothes out in anticipation of his shower.  
  
         “That’s a mighty fine show you’re putting on there.”  
  
         Paul froze, his hand, clutching fresh underclothes, was stuck in mid-air.  He then said, “I’m glad you’re appreciating it,” and wiggled his ass around a little before standing up.  “It’s time to get up and get dressed, Johnny.  The family will be here any minute now.”  
  
         John had sat up when he had first noticed that his favorite sight on earth was on clear display before him, but as Paul reminded him of “the family” he flopped back against his pillow on his back, and groaned loudly.  
  
         Paul chuckled.  “It’s not that bad, John.  We’ll have fun together, like when we’re on holiday.”  
  
         “I’m not going three days without sex!”  John declared stubbornly.  “So you should be using your well known ingenuity to figure out how we’re gonna get it on in the next two days.”  His voice brooked no denial, so Paul just smiled, turned his back on John and headed for the shower, letting his ass swish from side to side as he went.   He heard an inaudible imprecation behind him, but did not recognize the words.  He hadn’t been in the shower for 2 minutes before the door flew open and John burst in – completely starkers – and pushed Paul roughly against the wall.  “You don’t get to tease me like that,” John directed the threat directly into Paul’s ear.  “You’ll have to pay for that.”  
  
         “John, they’re literally going to walk in any minute now,” Paul responded, laughing a little at John’s sudden friskiness.  
  
         “You should have thought of that before you wiggled that ass at me.  You know what it does to me.  It’s like a red flag to a bull.”  John was pulling Paul to him, while simultaneously smashing him against the wall, but Paul was struggling to get away.  
  
         “John, _please_ ,” Paul couldn’t help laughing while he was begging for his freedom.  
  
         “Please _what_?  You wanna get drilled?”  
  
         An explosive, poorly withheld guffaw escaped Paul’s throat.  “As attractive as you make that sound, _no_ …I need to get dressed now.”  Paul managed to break free and on his way out of the shower door John gave him a sharp smack on his bum.  The slap actually hurt a bit, but Paul had learned a long time ago never to show John Lennon a weakness or he’d capitalize on it endlessly.  
  
         John finished his shower, and smiled to himself.  He had certainly flustered the poor boy.  John had just decided that he wasn’t going to walk around dog-in-the-manger during this Linda visit.  He’d decided to find himself some female company for after the concert, so that while Paul was with Linda, he would not be alone in his bed crying his fucking eyes out.  Of course, he’d have to rent a room in a different hotel, because he could just imagine James bursting in the next morning shouting, “ _I’m here_!”  Wouldn’t want the boy to be exposed to that much naked female pulchritude at his young age.  John chuckled at his own witticism, as he remembered how James had _coitus interruptus_ him when he was right on the verge of …Hmmmm.  It seemed like he had been subjected to more sexual frustration in the last few months than he’d had in years.  And - of course John had thought of this - maybe if John found a girl to be with, Paul might not take him so much for granted?  
  
         So, while Paul was readying his family suite for Linda and his children, John was wandering down the halls of a much lower floor looking for the roadies’ room.  He finally found it, and banged heavily.  Obviously, the roadies were still asleep, because it took several minutes, with lots of thumping sounds and swears before the door opened, to expose one of the roadies, covered to his waist with a sheet, swaying at the door with what appeared to be a gigantic hangover.  
  
         “Good-morning, Roger, glad to see you’re up and at ‘em at this late hour,” John said perkily, pushing the roadie back into the room and then following him.  The roadie, nonplussed, remembered to close the door.  In the double bed room, a hump was covered up in one bed, while another roadie was in the other bed, with a covered up hump next to him, too.  “I see we have company,” John commented, leaning down and giving one of the humps a spank on what appeared to be her bottom.  He heard a corresponding giggle from under the blankets.  
  
         “We weren’t expecting you,” Roger managed to stammer.  
  
         “No, I see that,” John laughed.  “But I’m glad to see you’re making friends with the local talent.”  John indicated with his head that they should head for the bathroom, and then walked in first.  Roger shared a look with his roommate that was part confusion and part fear.  The roommate shrugged, so Roger followed John into the bathroom, tripping over and then dragging his sheet with him.  
  
         “Roger, look, I need a woman for tonight.”  
  
         Roger was relieved that he wasn’t in trouble, and that John was asking for something that wasn’t strictly illegal.  Not that this would have stopped him from doing whatever John wanted.  That was part of the “deal” when one was a roadie.  You do whatever, no questions asked, no tales told.  In fact, Roger was a little surprised that John hadn’t asked for female company at all so far.  It had been 2 months, after all.  But maybe John had private women he had lined up in the other venues.  Paul – well, Paul was a professional married man, and as far as Roger could see, Paul didn’t stray from his wife despite pretty strong temptation on all sides.  
  
         “What kind of woman?” Roger asked.  
  
         “Well, I like brunettes. I figure there are plenty of them in Rome.  Not too young – someone in her late twenties would be best.  It would be good if she had some curves, you know?  And no English would be good.  I don’t want her to repeat anything I might say while I am in the throes of …well, you know…”  
  
         Roger chuckled nervously and nodded.  “Where do you want her?”  
  
         “I’ll tell the tour manager’s assistant to book me a room in a different hotel.  He’ll let you know where that is.  
  
         “After the show?”  
  
         “Precisely.  Now, I’ll make myself scarce and you can get back to…business.”  John gave him a wide close-mouthed smile, patted him on the back, and left the room.   
  


*****

  
  
       Paul had gone down to the lobby to greet Linda and his children as they arrived from the airport.  John had disappeared, so he’d left him a note to say where he’d gone.  John tended to be very territorial about Paul’s whereabouts, and could kick up quite a stir if he didn’t know where Paul was.  To avoid such scenes, Paul had taken to taping notes to the bathroom mirror wherever they were if he had to step out for any reason.  Another man might find this too constricting, but Paul enjoyed the structure provided by a possessive lover.  Linda was the same way as John – you had to tell her where you were all the time, or she’d get worried and think that you were cheating on her.  Even after all these years.  Somehow, knowing that his lovers cared that much about him gave Paul a sense of security, so he never balked at being monitored like some would.  
  
         The limo drew up, and the doors flew open, and soon Paul was visited with the loud, joyous, confusing phenomenon of the McCartney family arriving.  Linda popped out and went straight into Paul’s arms.  They were on the sidewalk outside the hotel, and the paparazzi got some great shots of Paul greeting his family, and his family showering him with warm affection.   Paul and Linda, arm in arm, entered the lobby and the family piled into the elevator.  The door to their suite was open, and the room was filled with bright winter light and fresh flowers.  There were 3 bedrooms in the McCartney’s suite, so Paul and Linda took one room, Mary and Stella another, and James the third.  There was a great deal of rushing about between rooms, and good natured squabbling between the kids, and Paul found himself filled with a sense of well being as his family cavorted around him.  He and Linda flopped down on a sofa, and began catching up, repeating to each other all the news since they’d last seen each other a month earlier in London, even thought they had spoken every day on the telephone during that time.  
  
         A few moments later, the connecting door flew open and John was standing there with his arms flung out shouting, _“Ta da!”_  
  
         Linda and Paul had a good laugh about that.  John came in and pushed his way between the two of them, and then flopped down.  He put an arm around each of them and said, “Glad to see me, Lin?”  
  
         Linda giggled and shook her head.  “That was quite an entrance.”  
  
         “I’ve become quite theatrical now that I’m on the stage for a living,” John explained in an exaggerated high brow RADA accent.  
  
         Paul was amazed at the transformation in John in the short time they’d been apart.  It was as if a completely different man had just strutted in there and announced himself.  Paul would have been thrilled by the attitude John was exuding, if not for a deep-seated suspicion, based on years of experience, that made him wonder what the hell John was up to.  Linda didn’t seem to be worried, and fell into a gossipy kind of teasing with John.  Paul wasn’t sure – he wasn’t at all sure – but was John _flirting_ with Linda?  Paul was not terribly jealous about his women, but that was mainly because his ego was such that he didn’t really think another man’s flirting was going to upset him from his catbird seat.  He was perhaps a little over-confident about the sexual hold he had over his lovers, but was it over confidence really?  No woman had ever out-and-out dumped him after all, at least not because she tired of him sexually (maybe because he had been unfaithful, once or twice).  He’d had a few turndowns at the get-go when he wasn’t rich and famous and he was inexperienced, of course, but he had quickly learned after the first few failures how to choose the right women to come on to, and after that even his come-ons were successful.  It was this inner voice of certainty that made him shake his head at himself and laugh more freely.  John would never seriously flirt with his wife, and Linda would never respond to it even if he did.  He laughed again.  But then his laugh ran out, and he was left with just a slight twinge of unease.  John was definitely up to something, and he had a bad feeling he wasn’t going to like it.  
  


*****

  
               
         “ _Buongiorno Roma!”_  
  
         The crowd went crazy when Paul shouted his greeting after he stood up from the piano, having finished _Let It Be_.   He jumped down to the stage level, and, grabbing his bass, approached the mic while John approached his.  
  
         “This is a new song, off our album, _Last Year’s Echo_ ,” Paul announced.  “You might have heard it – it was a rather big hit!”  With that they launched into _Free As A Bird_.  It seemed to John and Paul to be a good song after which they could segue into their old style rock  & roll segment.  
  


_Free as a bird_   
_It's the next best thing to be_   
_Free as a bird_   
_Home, home and dry_   
_Like a homing bird I'll fly_   
_As a bird on wings_

_Whatever happened to_   
_The life that we once knew?_   
_Can we really live without each other?_

_Where did we lose the touch_   
_That seemed to mean so much?_   
_It always made me feel so_

_Free as a bird_   
_Like the next best thing to be_   
_Free as a bird_   
_Home, home and dry_   
_Like a homing bird I'll fly_   
_As a bird on wings_

_Whatever happened to_   
_The life that we once knew?_   
_Always made me feel so free_   
_Free as a bird_

_It's the next best thing to be_   
_Free as a bird_   
_Free as a bird_   
_Free as a bird_   
_Free_

      As soon as the melody wafted into the night air, the lead guitar, base and drum burst straight into action, and soon John was shouting,  
  


_Well shake it up baby now!_   
_Twist and shout!_

  
  
       This song faded directly into _I Saw Her Standing There_ , with Paul shouting out the iconic “one-two-tree- _four_!” for all he was worth.  This was one of John and Paul’s favorite parts of the concert.  They had stripped off the dubious white jackets, and were all in black again, banging away at electric instruments, and singing until their voices were raw.  In those moments the years fell away, and John and Paul were playing to each other; they were reliving a thousand such nights where they faced each other with sweaty faces and hearts pounding with the relentless rhythm, and it was as if they were young again, unknown, but totally believing in themselves against the world.  
  
         They upped the ante with John bursting in with _Slow Down_ as soon as Paul finished singing, and then Paul completed the segment by screaming out:  
  


  
_You tell lies thinking I can't see_   
_You can't cry 'cause you're laughing at me_   
_I'm down (I'm really down)_   
_I'm down (Down on the ground)_   
_I'm down (I'm really down)_   
_How can you laugh, when you know I'm down?_   
_How can you laugh, when you know I'm down?_

_Man buys ring, woman throws it away_   
_Same old thing happens every day_   
_I'm down (I'm really down)_   
_I'm down (Down on the ground)_   
_I'm down (I'm really down)_   
_How can you laugh, when you know I'm down?_   
_How can you laugh, when you know I'm down?_

_We're all alone and there's nobody else_   
_She'll still moan, "Keep your hands to yourself"_   
_I'm down (I'm really down)_   
_Ah babe I'm down (Down on the ground)_   
_I'm down_   
_How can you laugh, when you know I'm down?_   
_How can you laugh, when you know I'm down?..._

      It didn’t escape Paul’s notice as he sang this song that it echoed somewhat the feelings he’d tried to brush away earlier in the day.  It was this thought that brought back the sense of disquiet.  
  


*****

  
  
       As soon as the concert was over, John and Paul met up with Paul’s family in the reception room.  There was a lot of whooping and congratulating going on, and in the rumpus John took the moment to slip out.  As he left he whispered to the tour manager, Evan Willis, “Tell Paul I’m out for the evening – I’ll see him sometime tomorrow.”  (Because Paul’s family was visiting, they were going to spend 2 days relaxing in Rome before heading for their next concert in Madrid.)  
  
         Paul didn’t notice John slip out, because he was so busy interacting with his children.  But when they headed for the limo back to the hotel, he looked around and couldn’t see John.  Because he had been feeling odd about John since earlier in the day, his face reflected both confusion and concern.  Evan Willis noticed this and approached him.  
        
         “John said he’ll be out for the night; he’ll meet up with you sometime tomorrow,” he said quietly to Paul.  In fact, Willis was relieved to see John going out to sow wild oats.  It had been kind of weird that John and Paul would disappear into their suite at night, with no sign of women coming and going.  It had begun to make him wonder if those rumors might be true…But here was Linda, and Paul thrilled to see her, and there was John – off on a late night adventure no doubt of the sexual kind, and it renewed his faith in his employers’ masculinity.  They were older now, of course, and a slower pace and a bit more decorum were in order, so he had wondered about this needlessly.  
  
         Paul heard what Willis had told him, but he couldn’t quite believe it.  What did that mean?  ‘ _Out for the night_ ’ and ‘ _sometime tomorrow’_?  Was this some kind of punishment John was dealing out because Linda was there?  Now Paul was a bit worried and distracted as he accompanied his family back to their hotel suite.  He hoped John wouldn’t get up on a stripper stage and end up on the front page.  Or get tangled up with a bad sort that would get him started on drugs again.  When John was on his own out on the town, he simply didn’t know when to apply the brakes.   He didn’t know when to stop drinking, snorting, inhaling, rutting, or making a ridiculous scene.  Paul was a bit angry now at the tour manager for letting John go off on his own.  _What on earth was he thinking_?  He’d have to give that man a piece of his mind in the morning!  
  
         Needless to say, the night had been ruined for Paul by John’s mysterious disappearance.  He tried to pay attention to Linda, and be the man of her dreams for the night, but his stupid brain kept wondering and worrying about John.  After he’d finally managed to complete an orgasm, and Linda had finally fallen asleep in his arms, Paul laid awake wondering if he should sneak out and check to see if John was back safe in his bed.  He didn’t want to wake up Linda, but he was finding it impossible to just lie there worrying, so he got up as quietly as possible, gently disentangling himself from Linda’s limbs, and tiptoed out of the room, as silently as possible closing the door.  He then went across the sitting room to the connecting door, and tried it.  It was locked from the other side.  Where was his key?  He didn’t remember where he had put it, and he couldn’t go banging around searching for it at this late hour without disturbing somebody who would wonder what he was up to, so he stood there in the dark for a few moments wondering if the door being locked meant that John was back or that John was still out?  In the end, Paul turned back to his bedroom, and climbed back in to bed, his head recycling terrible scenarios.  In this state of mind he tried to settle himself down so he could fall asleep.  Paul kept talking to himself in aid of this result:  John was fucking with him.  He’d have it out with John “ _sometime tomorrow_ ”, whatever the fuck that meant.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       That night John got very drunk, but not before he had enjoyed an extremely vigorous fuck session with the gorgeous Italian beauty his roadie had found him.  She had come from the audience, and clearly spoke little English, and understood less.  This suited John down to the ground.  He and the woman proceeded to get drunk together after having sex together, and they had fallen asleep – naked, sweaty, sticky and boozy – tangled in the sheets, and in blissful peace with the world.  John had thought, while he was fucking this woman, that this was a whole lot better than crying himself to sleep in the fetal position while hugging pillows.  
  
         In the afternoon, however, as he awoke, John’s thoughts weren’t nearly as pleasant.  He had awakened with a gigantic hangover, and when he first was waking he thought for a moment it was Paul in his arms.  But it was this strange woman, who he barely even recognized as the woman he had fucked earlier that morning.  Her hair smelled of some weird oily product which caused it to stick out around her face like a medusa, and her make up was smudged all over her face making her look almost as though she had clown features.  And her breath!  Of course, John thought immediately, his breath must even be worse.  He moved towards the edge of the bed, slowly removing her arms and legs from his, and sat up on the edge.  His head fell into his hands, as he nursed his king hell headache.  He wondered what Paul was up to.  Then he noticed the time on the bedside clock.  It was almost 4 p.m. in the afternoon!  The day was gone!  Paul was going to kill him!  
  
         Or maybe not.  Maybe Paul hadn’t even noticed he was gone, and was still ensconced in the bosom of his damn family.  Or maybe Paul would actually be worried about him, or jealous?  One could always hope, but that seemed very unlikely to John.  Paul didn’t _get_ jealous about John’s body.  He only got jealous about John’s mind.  Perhaps this would have been okay for John, if he weren’t madly possessive of Paul’s body _and_ his mind!  Well, Paul needed to understand that he could lose John if he didn’t wake up and give him what he needed in the way of verbal acknowledgement.  John had realized trying to talk about it with Paul was useless, so he was trying out the theory that a few demonstrations of what could happen if he didn’t get the attention he needed might persuade Paul to open up more and let John in.  He got up to a standing position, groaning and moaning all the way, and banged on the connecting door.  A roadie immediately answered it, obviously anxious to get back to work, but stuck there babysitting John.  “Get rid of her,” John said softly.  “Tell her I enjoyed myself immensely.”  He then shuffled his way to the bathroom.  When he came out the woman was gone, and John felt relieved by that.  He slowly dragged on his clothes, and then banged on the neighboring door again.  The roadie appeared quickly again.  “Let’s get back to the Grand,” John muttered, keeping his voice low so as not to excite his neurons.  
  
  


*****

  
  
                                                                                      
         Paul awakened abruptly at 7:00 a.m.  Linda was in his arms and she was fast asleep.  She usually awakened at 6:30 a.m., but she was on holiday and apparently was taking advantage of this fact.  Paul got up and threw on some comfortable clothes, and ambled out into the sitting room.  James was already up watching a movie on the hotel’s movie channel.  
  
         “Hey, did you ask permission to do that, sport?” Paul asked sternly.  James looked up from under his bangs with a guilty expression.  
  
         “I didn’t want to wake you,” James explained.  
  
         “Those movies cost money you know, and you should ask permission before you order them.  No more of that James, okay?”  
  
         James nodded solemnly.  He was used to his father’s thrifty ways.  Paul had raised his children to respect money, and he had told them all they would have to work for a living, so they couldn’t expect to sit around on their duffs waiting for mummy and daddy to pay for things.  
  
         “Are you hungry, son?”  
  
         James nodded enthusiastically.  
  
         “Let’s see what you want to eat.”  He opened up the room service menu and went over it with James.  James wanted the Belgian waffles with strawberries and whipped cream, and, smiling, Paul ordered for him.  James wanted to wash it down with coca cola, and Paul decided it was holidays, so why not?  Linda would never allow this sacrilege to happen at home, but she would probably be okay with it while in Rome.  
  
         James taken care of, Paul then did a search round the place until he found the key to the connecting suite, and while James was stuffing his face and watching the movie, he casually unlocked the door, knocking softly first, and then entered.  Empty.  The bed had not even been slept in, and the turndown chocolate was still sitting on John’s pillow.  _Well, he said he wouldn’t be around until “sometime” today_ , Paul thought, _so no point in panicking yet_.  
  
         The rest of the morning saw the gradual awakenings of Linda, Mary and Stella, and then Paul and the ladies ordered their breakfast together, while James was watching television.  They made plans to do some sightseeing.  The Panthenon was a short walk away, so they all got dressed in their nice but casual clothes, and left for the brief walk.  Rome was beautiful, even in the winter, and the sightseeing tour used up the late morning and early afternoon.  They were back in the hotel by 2 p.m., and the kids were hungry again.  Paul hoped that John was back in his room, so that he could come to lunch with them at the restaurant recommended by the concierge.  But when he knocked on the door and then let himself in, the room was still undisturbed.  Paul was quite worried by then.  He telephoned the tour manager’s room, but was told he had already flown on to the next venue, Madrid.  He tried the roadies’ rooms, but half of them had left for Madrid, and the other half were unaccounted for.  He was in a near-spitting rage at this point.  John was off on his own in a strange city, and the fucking roadies apparently didn’t give a fuck!  It was unusual for Paul to swear so much, even in his thoughts, so this was an indicator of how angry and worried he was.  
  
         He stomped through the suite, where his family had been patiently waiting for him so they could go to a mid-afternoon meal and then take a siesta.  Paul looked as though he had a thundercloud over his head as he stalked past them and tried the connecting door again.  He then stomped into the master bedroom and slammed the door.  
  
         “What’s wrong with _him_?” Stella asked, astounded by this display of bad temper from her usually mellow father.  She’d seen him stressed out of his mind over album releases, but he rarely slammed doors, even when he was mad.  
  
         Linda got up and followed him into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.  She didn’t have to ask him what was wrong.  Paul was out on the balcony staring down on to the street, his face dark with anger.  As he saw Linda approaching he returned to the room and said harshly, “That asshole has been out all night, and I can’t find anyone who knows where he is!  For all I know he has been kidnapped by those fucking Red Brigades!  And the tour manager and roadies – nowhere to be found!  Apparently they can’t be bothered to keep an eye on John!”  
  
         Linda had known it had to do with John.  Only John could get Paul this upset.  She knew she had to be careful about how she went about dealing with Paul when he was in this outraged mood.   “Perhaps the roadies are with him,” she said in a soft voice.  “John isn’t that brave.  He’s very tentative about going out in public.  I can’t see him going off without at least one of the roadies with him.”  
  
         Paul had stopped raving and was concentrating on Linda’s face as she spoke.  What she said certainly made sense.  John didn’t even enjoy going out and about in London by himself, and usually dragged someone along with him, if for no other reason than to handle all financial transactions and transport arrangements.  
  
         “Let’s go eat a light lunch, and I’m sure by the time we get back, John will be here and none the worse for wear,” Linda suggested calmly.  
  
         Paul nodded, and with a great deal of self-discipline, forced himself to straighten up and wipe his face clean of his anger.  “Let’s go,” he said softly, and held the bedroom door open for Linda.  “But I have to leave a note in John’s suite first.”  The family filed out of the door, into the elevator, and out into the street.  The restaurant was only a few blocks away, and they walked there in a desultory way, each of them remembering Paul’s brief temper tantrum and feeling a bit awkward in his presence as a result.  He was quiet and unresponsive through much of lunch, constantly staring at his watch and then looking around the room as if he hoped to see someone approaching him.  
  
         Back in the suite by 3:30 p.m., everyone except Paul laid down for a brief nap.  Between the walking, eating and jet lag, the kids were zonked, and were sealed off in their rooms.  Linda sat with Paul in the sitting room in a show of solidarity, but soon had fallen fast asleep.  Paul sat next to her on the sofa, and took turns staring blankly out into space, and then snapping out of it, looking at his watch and pacing past the connecting door.  He had left it open so that he would hear and see when John got back.  
  
         It was after 4:30 when Paul finally heard the next-door suite door close.  He forced himself to sit still and let John come to him.  He was of course relieved that John was back.  At least he wasn’t being held for ransom in some stone building in Padua.  He wouldn’t be seeing John on the telly all beaten up and holding up the day’s newspaper as the demand for ransom was read.  A few minutes went by, and Paul’s temper was beginning to simmer again.  It soon became apparent that John had gone directly into the bathroom, because Paul – who was straining to hear what he could – did finally recognize the sound of a toilet flushing.  A few moments later, John was standing in the open doorway.  Paul saw him out of the periphery of his eye but decided to pretend he had been napping.  Paul didn’t know what game John was playing, but he refused to be the butt of it.  
  
         John casually walked in, noting that both Paul and Linda were dozing.  He turned to go back in to his room, and then Paul stirred.  “Is that you John?”  Linda awoke at the sound of Paul’s voice.  
  
         _Damn!  He’d almost gotten away!_ Reluctantly, John turned around and put on a pleasant expression.  “Yup, this would be me!” he said in a chipper voice.  
  
         Linda was thinking, _oh crap!  Not even a scintilla of guilt on John’s face.  Paul’s gonna hit the ceiling_!  
  
         “You folks have a good day?” John asked cheerfully, sitting down on the arm of an easy chair.  
  
         Linda looked nervously at Paul, who seemed to have slipped into his blank face.  The one he used when he didn’t want anyone to read him, which was about 60% of the fucking time.  Linda smiled and said, “we did some sightseeing, and we had a light lunch down the road.  We’re all having a siesta right now.”   
  
         Paul remained silent, but had looked up from his hands and was staring at John with an unnerving blank stare.  _He wants me to ask about where he’d been, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction_ , Paul thought.  Instead he said, “Are you off on your own for dinner, or will you come with us?”  His voice was polite but cold.  
  
         _He’s really pissed_ , John thought. _Good.  Let him suffer for a while_.  John smiled easily, pretending that he didn’t notice Paul’s cold demeanor.  “Dinner with _the family_ sounds great.  What time?”  John had put the words “the family” in virtual quotation marks when he had said it; Paul would take this as an insult, and that is how John wanted him to take it.  John wasn’t really a part of “the family”.  He was always standing off to the side, and it would always be that way.  It always irked him when Paul spoke as if “the family” was also John’s family.  
  
         Linda swallowed hard.  This wasn’t good.  “Eight o’clock?” she suggested.  “I’ll have the concierge book us somewhere good.”  
  
         “Excellent!” John announced loudly, getting up and sauntered off towards the connecting door.  “See you later then!”  The connecting door closed and Paul heard the lock turn.  
  
         Paul didn’t know what he felt more strongly:  anger, fear, or pain.  They all seemed to be vying for control of his emotions.  He didn’t realize he had been squeezing Linda’s hand too tightly until she finally whimpered a little.  He looked down at his hand as he loosened it, and then looked up and met Linda’s eyes.  She saw the pain and fear, but she didn’t see the anger.  
  
         “I think he’s having a little ‘declaration of independence’ moment,” she said softly, stroking his hand with hers.  “Don’t worry about it.  It will all right itself in the end, as it always does.”  
  
         Paul wasn’t sure Linda was correct because there had been plenty of times in his life when things had not “righted” themselves.  But he wanted her to be correct, so he decided that he would try to face the rest of the evening with that attitude.


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A significant bump in the road for our intrepid heroes...

        Madrid was on a beautiful plateau at the center of the Iberian Peninsula, and the sky seemed an impossible vista.  Earlier that afternoon, in Rome, a few hours after Linda and the kids had said their goodbyes, John and Paul had met each other in the lobby and had gotten into the limo for their own trip to the airport, where they sat silently.  The last two days in Rome had been difficult for both of them, locked in their war of wills, and surrounded by Paul’s family, so finding themselves unable to fight it out between them.  
  
         Because Paul hadn’t ever asked about where he’d gone the night after the concert, John decided he would have to be more obvious, so the night before he had his two roadies go out and find him a woman to stay with him at the Grand, in the suite next to Paul’s.  He invited the woman to dinner with Paul and Linda that night (the kids were having room service back in the suite), and then even for nightcaps with Linda and Paul after dinner before disappearing into his own suite, locking the door behind them.  
  
         Linda had been aware of and amused by John’s tactics.  She thought she understood what he was up to.  Paul did seem upset by it all, but it wasn’t clear to Linda whether the upset had more to do with worry and concern over the potential loss of John’s friendship or him getting hurt in some way than it did jealousy over the woman.  Perhaps it was a lot of one, and a little of the other.  She was in the strange position of having to reassure her husband that his male lover was just twisting his tail.  When she was a kid at Scarsdale High School she’d never thought she’d be having a conversation like this with her husband!  Oh, well.  
  
         “Paul, he’s doing this to get your attention,” she had finally said, as they prepared for bed, in much the same way as she had said it to her best girlfriend during senior year.  
  
         “But why?  He’s already _got_ my attention!”  Paul had blurted that out without realizing how that might sound to Linda.  “He doesn’t have to behave like a baboon to get my attention.”  Paul was muttering to himself now, as he threw articles of clothing around the room.  
  
         Linda patted the bed beside her, and her grumpy husband had climbed in next to her.  “Let’s forget about him for the night,” she suggested.  “I’ve got some really great pot,” she added with her face all lit with mischief.  Paul laughed and tweaked her nose.  
  
         “I don’t deserve you. I really don’t.  It’s just that _man_ – he makes me _crazy_!”  
  
         But soon, what with the pot and the sex, Paul had been very relaxed and was seeing the whole situation in a more balanced light.  Was it true John was trying to make him jealous?  Paul didn’t understand why people did that on purpose to people they loved.  Feeling jealous was the worst feeling on earth, as far as Paul was concerned.  It had driven him nearly insane on the few occasions that he had allowed himself to feel it.  And here he was – halfway down the hallway to the Cuckoo Door.  He chuckled as he took another huge toke and handed the blunt to Linda.  “I’m a fucking fool,” he had said, laughing, and Linda had laughed too.  “I’d much rather John be having fun while I’m with you, than him lying around feeling terrible.”   
  
         Linda had then patted her husband’s chest in an “attaboy” gesture, and handed the blunt back to Paul.  
  
         So, the next afternoon, while Paul sat silently next to John in the limo on their way to the airport, he wasn’t nursing anger anymore.  But he didn’t exactly know how to get through to John.  John seemed to have sealed himself off.  
  
         They were staying at the Ritz in Madrid, and Paul had made sure they only had the one suite.  Maybe they’d end up in separate bedrooms if John wanted to keep up the feud, but hopefully there wouldn’t be a locked door between them. But first, Paul had some business to transact with the tour manager as soon as he arrived at the hotel.  Paul found Evan Willis in his room, and waited for him to get off the telephone.  
  
         The manager turned to him as he hung up and said brightly, “How was your time off in Rome?”  
  
         “Did you know that John was gone for hours after the concert?  He didn’t get back to the hotel until almost 5 p.m.!”  
  
         “Yes, Roger did mention it to me.”  
  
         “Roger?”  Paul asked, confused.  
  
         “The roadie.”  
  
         “Roger the roadie told you…”  
  
         “Yes.”  
  
         “You do realize that there are professional kidnappers in Italy, don’t you?  Why would you leave John’s safety and security entirely in the hands of… _Roger the roadie_?”  
  
         “I told Roger to tell you what went down,” the manager said.  He was beginning to realize that McCartney was really mad.  Paul didn’t like mistakes, and he especially didn’t like ugly surprises.  
  
         “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of Roger,” Paul said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, and becoming ever more frightening with each word. “I worried about John all the next day.  You would have thought that someone might have thought it appropriate to tell me where the hell he was?”  
  
         The manager was squirming.  This was the first time he had found himself between John Lennon and Paul McCartney and it was a damned unpleasant place to be.  Some of the old Apple scruffs had warned him about this before he took the gig, but he had foolishly thought he could handle it, no problem.  “Thing is,” Willis offered, “I myself didn’t know where he went at the time, although I told Roger to stay with him, and he did.”  
  
         “So Roger the roadie knew where John was, and you didn’t?  Who’s in charge here anyway?”  Paul’s face was white.  He tended to go white when he was very angry.  “Never.  I.  Mean. Never. Let. That. Happen. Again.”  
  
         The tour manager nodded in agreement, his eyes wide open.  He had managed other rock bands on tour many times, and he’d never seen one of the band members this proprietary about the whereabouts of another.  It was very strange.  
  
         Paul could see the confusion and disillusionment in the manager’s face, and he softened.  “Look,” he said in a much kinder voice, “John isn’t like your average grown up.  He is utterly unpredictable.  He does crazy things when left to his own devices.  He could get hurt, he could be lured into compromising situations, he could have a drug overdose.  You have to keep your eye on John, he doesn’t have any…brakes.”  Paul used the word for lack of a better one.  But he was mindful that this is what George Martin often called him – John’s “brakes.”   
  
         Willis was relieved by the explanation and then ventured a question.  “So, in the future, if he refuses to tell me what he’s up to, what do you expect me to do?”  
  
         “Call me immediately, and I’ll handle it.”  
  
         “Okay.  I can do that.”  
  
         “Sorry if I bit your head off; but what John did was very dangerous, and it scared the shit out of me, and I need everyone on this team to be looking out for him because he doesn’t look out for himself.”   
  
  


*****

  
  
        John was back in the hotel suite, doing his usual minimal overnight unpacking.   They’d be leaving Madrid the day after the concert, and then would be on to Lisbon.  In Lisbon, they’d have a few days’ rest before the long hall over to Caracas, Venezuela, to begin the South American leg of their tour.   He felt dispirited and had begun to regret his crazy ass behavior over the last few days.  He felt certain he had ruined Linda’s visit with Paul – _was that his goal_?  John hoped that he was a nicer person than that, but he suspected he wasn’t.   Still, Paul was behaving like a snot and had been doing so ever since the afternoon after he’d been out all night.  Paul hadn’t even asked where he had been.  Wasn’t he curious?  And John had gotten no rise out of him with that stunt with the woman in their suite, either.  Of course, John had lost all interest in her almost as soon as the suite door had shut behind them, and he had decided to go down on the woman because he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long.  Couldn’t have some woman going around telling the world John Lennon was impotent, could he?  John had gotten very good at head in the ‘70s, when it became less and less exciting to him to have sex with women.  He really had to be in the mood for vaginal sex with women, and while Paul was haunting his brain he couldn’t get in the mood for it.  
  
         Back in Madrid, John heard Paul entering the suite, and focused on his suitcase again, while actually waiting for Paul to come in the bedroom and say something.  Anything.  
  
         Paul had entered so quietly, John didn’t hear him, so he jumped a bit when Paul said softly, “John?” Paul was sitting on the edge of the bed.  John stopped what he was doing and sat down on an easy chair, facing Paul.  
  
         “Yes?”  
  
         “Can we talk about it?”  
  
         “Yes.”  John didn’t pretend that he didn’t know what Paul was talking about.  “It” was perfectly clear to both of them, like an elephant in the room or something.  
  
         “What you did – disappearing like that – it was very dangerous.”  
  
         “ _Dangerous_?” John repeated.  _What the fuck?_ John had been hoping to hear how it made Paul jealous, or that he missed him, or that his feelings were hurt.  But ‘ _dangerous_?’  
  
         “Have you heard of the Red Brigades?”  Paul asked him quietly.  
  
         John’s face was now a study in absolute perplexity.  “ _Red Brigades_?  What has that got to do with me?”  
  
         “They are a group that kidnaps, kills, and kneecaps people for political reasons and to raise money to support their political causes.  Hell, they killed a former prime minister!  They have also spawned a lot of copycat gangs who forget the politics and just kidnap for the ransom.  You’re a prime candidate for that kind of a kidnapping, John.  You shouldn’t endanger yourself that way.  Didn’t you hear what the security expert told us?”  
  
         If John hadn’t been hoping for a more romantic disclosure, he might have been touched by Paul’s concern for his safety.  As it was, he was hard pressed not to explode.  “Do you think I’m a fucking _fool_ , Paul?  No, I didn’t think I was going to get kidnapped! I was with two roadies at all times!  I had Evan’s assistant book me a room in another nice hotel.  We took a limo from the concert arena to the hotel.  The woman came from the fucking audience, Paul, and was chosen at random and vetted by the roadies.  It seems unlikely she’d turn out to be an agent of the Red Brigades!”  
  
         Paul listened in stony silence to John’s angry response.  “This all may be so,” he said stiffly.  “But I didn’t know any of this, and was left to worry about your safety all night long, and into the next day.”  
         
         “I don’t owe you explanations about my whereabouts!” John shouted.  
  
         “Yes, you do, John!” Paul shouted back.  “Am I supposed to turn off my concern for you whenever you decide to freeze me out?”  
  
         John sighed heavily.  “You’re such a fucking drama queen, Paul.  You were with your wife and kids.  I was trying to leave you alone so you could enjoy them.  Excuse me for being thoughtful.”  
  
         “ _Thoughtful_?”  Paul was now beside himself as he repeated, “ _thoughtful?_ I spent the whole time worrying about you, John!  It ruined everything!  Why couldn’t you have left me a note, saying where you’d be so I wouldn’t worry?”  
  
         “Ah, the famous little Macca notes taped to the mirrors or left on the mantelpieces.  Do you realize how _queer_ that is?  Half the time I don’t even _see_ the damn things before you’re back in the room.   You don’t have to tell me where you’re going every fucking second of the day, and I don’t have to tell _you_!”  John’s voice was steeped in nasty sarcasm now – the kind Paul remembered from 1971.  It was too painful a prod, and Paul reacted immediately.  Without another word, Paul got up and left the room, taking his overnight bag with him.  
  
         “Where the hell are _you_ going?” John demanded.  
  
         Paul laughed.  “I thought I didn’t have to tell you everywhere I’m going every fucking second!”  Paul slammed the bedroom door, and carried his case across the sitting room area to the other bedroom.  
  
         John had gotten up to follow Paul with “another thing” he wanted to say, but only got the door open in time to see the door to the other bedroom slam shut, and to hear the lock turning.  “Oh for Chrissakes!” John shouted across the sitting area.  “You’re behaving like a bleeding _cunt!_ ”  John waited for a response, but he was met with cold silence.  “So now we’re gonna do the whole withdrawal thing, are we?”  No response.  
  
         John picked up a sofa cushion and threw it angrily across the room.  “He’s a fucking _woman,_ ” John muttered to the room at large.  He waited for a few minutes to see if Paul would come out, but he heard not a sound from that room.  He plopped down on the sitting room sofa and turned on the television.  It was only 4 p.m., and they had 2 hours to pass before leaving for the concert arena.  John felt his stomach rumble, and thought he would call room service.  Maybe Paul was hungry too?  John went over to Paul’s door and knocked.  He didn’t get a verbal response.  “Paul?  Paul, don’t let’s be stupid.  I’m ordering something to eat.  Are you hungry?”  
  
         “No thanks,” came the polite but cold response.  
  
         John sighed again.  _Lord save me from pouting lovers_ , he thought to himself, completely unaware that he had subjected Paul to far more moments like this than Paul had ever suffered on him.  He went ahead and ordered enough food for two, in case Paul changed his mind, or John was able to woo him out of the room.  Honestly, Paul took things so _seriously_ sometimes.  Most of the time he didn’t.  John wished that Paul would come up with some kind of warning system so that he would know the times Paul was going to be hurt by his sarcasm, as opposed to brushing it off with a smartass remark of his own.   
  
  


*****

  
  
  
        It was unusual for John and Paul not to have arrived at the arena precisely two hours before the concert.  It had never happened that they were in danger of missing sound check.  The tour manager was worried. He got on the phone and called John and Paul’s suite.  John answered.  
  
         “Where are you two? Any problems?”  
  
         “His Eminence is moving like molasses.  I’m hearing sounds from his room that indicate that he is about to emerge.”  
  
         “Is Paul okay?” Willis asked.  Paul was _never_ a problem.  He was the least histrionic and most professional rock star the manager had ever worked for.  They’d had a few scary moments with _John’s_ moods, but never _Paul_.  
  
         “Oh – here he comes!  The door is opening!  And there he is, in all his glory!”  John was announcing this into the phone in an unnecessarily loud and sarcastic tone of voice.  
  
         “Fuck off,” Paul said, giving John an obscene gesture with his fingers.  
  
         “Yeah, Paul is in a bonnie mood tonight.  It’s gonna be a _great_ concert!” John declared in a fake cheerful voice.  
  
         The tour manager hadn’t heard Paul’s response, but John’s voice was scaring the shit out of him.  The two of them were obviously not getting along, and Willis wondered if it was because of Lennon’s disappearing act the other night.  
  
         “Gotta go now!” John’s voice was echoing in his ear. “His Excellency has just left the suite, and I believe that is my cue to follow humbly in his royal wake.”  
  
  
         Willis heard the phone click.  He sighed deeply and, catching sight of the promoters, who were hovering around the dressing rooms wanting to introduce their V.I.P.s to the stars, he hurried over to them to assure them that all was well.  “They’re on their way,” Willis said.  “Should be here within 20 minutes.”  
  
         It was more like a half hour.  It was cutting it very close, but Paul knew that they could do a truncated sound check and still be ready for the stage at 8:15 p.m. as usual, and the audience would be none the wiser.  He had deliberately avoided leaving earlier so that there would be no further opportunities for John and him to argue before the concert.  Lord knows there would be plenty of time to do that later.  In fact, Paul saw nothing but time stretching out ahead of him.  All of his dreams of getting closer to John on this tour had turned out to be fantasies, and his heart was hurting as much as his pride.  He wondered if they’d make it through the rest of the tour without killing each other, or at least quitting.  
  
         As they stood in the wings at the mic, with their headphones on, Paul looked just above John’s head as they sang their harmony in _Because._  He was afraid he would become distracted by what he saw in John’s eyes, and it would screw up the intro.  
  
         Paul transformed himself into “Beatle Paul” as soon as the spotlight hit him, and his charm and smiles were as if normal.  No one else could tell that there was no real warmth in the smiles that Paul sent his way, but John could.  
  
         They had just finished the rock and roll segment, and John was actually dreading the next few songs.  They were soft, acoustic numbers – most of them were love songs.  How on earth were they going to get through these songs feeling as they did?  John was already terribly sorry he had reacted as he did.  It really was kind of sweet of Paul to worry about him all night, and just because he didn’t _say_ he was jealous didn’t mean that he _wasn’t_ jealous.  But because of his putdown, Paul had now cut himself off, and John knew it was going to be a pain in the ass tearing down those walls again.  
  
         After the last chord of _I’m Down_ died, Paul turned to take a few sips of water.  His throat was always dry after singing that demanding song.  He then stepped up to the mic that had been placed in the middle of the stage.  John was already there, waiting.  Paul nodded, and Robbie played the first few chords of the next song – a series of three strums - and John and Paul both began to sing together in harmony:  
  


_That boy took my love away_   
_Oh, he'll regret it someday_   
_But this boy wants you back again_

  
John bored his eyes into Paul’s on the line “ _this boy wants you back again._ ”  He couldn’t tell if Paul was getting the message, because he had that “Beatle Paul” smile on his face.  At least he was meeting his eyes while they were harmonizing.  But he kind of had to do that to make sure they were on time and in pitch.  
  


_That boy isn't good for you_   
_Though he may want you too_   
_This boy wants you back again_

_Oh, and this boy would be happy_   
_Just to love you, but oh my_   
_That boy won't be happy_   
_Till he's seen you cry_

_This boy wouldn't mind the pain_   
_Would always feel the same_   
_If this boy gets you back again_   
_This boy, this boy, this boy…_

  
        The next song was John’s favorite vocal of Paul’s – ‘ _Til There Was You -_ which song Paul had added reluctantly at John’s insistence.  But when Robbie put his hands on the guitar to play the first chord, Paul did a slitting gesture across his throat.  “ _Not tonight_ ” he said.  Instead, he said “ _Nowhere Man_ ”.  
  
         John was poleaxed.  He felt exactly as if Paul had just plunged a knife into his gut.  But seeing that Paul had his professional look on, John pulled himself together.  They had to sing the first four lines of _Nowhere Man_ a cappella, and it would require concentration.  They managed to carry it off, and both felt relieved when the guitars and drums cut in at the start of the second verse.  
  
         Paul knew he would have to sing the next one, or it would start looking odd to the band.  He had a hard time thinking of singing _Here, There and Everywhere_ when he was feeling so hurt and ostracized by John.  Everyone thought Paul had written that song for Jane Asher, but in fact Jane Asher was  
 _never_ here, or there, or everywhere.  She was always on some fucking acting tour in fucking Bristol or somewhere.  It was _John_ who had been here, there, and everywhere in Paul’s life at the time the song was written.  Of course, Paul had never told John this, and he doubted that John had any idea it was about him.  
  
         Tonight Paul turned to the audience, and staring up to the highest seats, sang a beautiful rendition of _Here, There and Everywhere_.  John stood off to the side watching Paul and feeling bereft of warmth.  This was a hellish concert, and he only wanted it to end.  So far, this had been the only concert he’d wanted to just walk away from since the tour began.  Oh god – what if it kept on like this?  Would he have to fake it through 45 more concerts?  Well, he couldn’t.  He wouldn’t.  If they didn’t get this straightened out soon, he would quit.  
  
         The next song, _Real Love_ , left a strong taste of irony in John’s mouth, since he was the lead singer, and it had been written about his love for Paul.  As John opened up with _Real Love_ , he tried without success to catch Paul’s eyes as they sang the harmony, and because he was unsuccessful in this, he did a fairly dispirited job of it, although the fans didn’t seem to notice.  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
        The ride back to the hotel in the limo was silent.  Paul was leaned up against one door, his face kind of stuck to his window.  John sat more in the middle, trying to think of something to say to break the ice.  Literally, break _the ice._ Their tour manager was in the car with them.  He had never gone with them before, but he was extremely concerned about his stars.  The band was starting to whisper that there was trouble in paradise, and he knew it was his job to help them solve whatever problem they had.  So he had hopped in the limo behind John, and now they rode in the most uncomfortable silence back to the hotel.  
  
         John and Paul straggled through the hotel’s underground parking lobby, Paul lagging a bit behind John, and Willis walking next to Paul.  When they got on the elevator, Willis said, “Mind if I come up for a nightcap?”  John and Paul both looked at him in surprise, but then John said,  
  
         “Of course you can come up.”  Paul didn’t disagree, so the tour manager felt it was so far so good.  
  
         In a desultory way they entered the suite, and Paul went straight to his room and closed the door.  Willis observed this and looked at John, who shrugged.  
  
         “What’s your poison?” John asked.  
  
         “Scotch.”  
  
         “Ice?”  
  
         “Three cubes please.”  
  
         “Water?”  
  
         “Just a splash.”  
         
         John handed him the glass, and then fixed one for himself and they both sat down.  
  
         “Will Paul be joining us?” Willis asked.  
  
         “Your guess is as good as mine,” John said laconically, hooking one leg over an easy chair arm.  
  
         “What’s going on with you two?  It’s palpable.  Everyone is talking – it’s really bad for the tour.”  
  
         John laughed in a humorless way.  “Yeah.  The tour.  It’s bad for the _tour_.”  
  
         “Can you help me out here?  I want to help, but I need a clue.  I’ve acted as a kind of therapist for many a rock group in my career…but I have to have some idea of what is going on.”  
  
         John smiled at him.  How quaint.  The tour manager thought they were having stupid band problems.  Willis had no idea what he was really dealing with.  
  
         At just that moment Paul came out, dressed in bed attire and a bathrobe.  He strode over to the drinks tray and fixed himself a short whiskey, straight.  He plopped down in the other armchair, opposite the sofa, and stared at Willis.  “Cheers!” Paul said, offering his glass up in _salut_.  The manager smiled in a sickly manner and raised his glass.  
  
         “He was just wondering what was going on with us,” John explained loudly to Paul.  “He thinks he can help us sort it out, so we don’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”  
  
         Paul sniffed with hard humor as he swallowed some whiskey.  “We wouldn’t want to lose those golden eggs, would we John?”  
  
         “No, siree bob!”  John responded cheerfully.  
  
         The tour manager was now utterly lost.  “It’s just that if rumors get out that you two are feuding it can ruin the tour…” he tried.  
  
         Paul sobered enough to say, “I know, I know.  But you’ll have to let us work this out between us, privately.”  
  
         “Yeah, god forbid if our _tour manager_ knows what the fuck is going on…” John said, making a face at Paul.  
  
         There was a knock on the door, and Paul went to open it.  It was the manager’s three assistants wondering where their boss was.  Paul invited them in.  John hopped up.  
  
         “Drinks?” He asked playfully.  
  
         Each of the assistants put in his order, but warily, and not sure if they were going to get in trouble for it later from their boss.  They sat uneasily on the sofa with their boss as John handed out their drinks, taking a second full glass of whiskey for himself.  He sat down and drank half of the whiskey in one go.  He took a deep breath and drank the rest.  He smiled to the assembled audience, and then got up and filled his glass with whiskey again.  
  
         Paul’s head lolled back and his eyes were rolling back in his head.  He knew he couldn’t say anything to John.  John was just bloody-minded, and was going to do what John was going to do.  
  
         “What do you want?”  Willis hissed to his assistants.  
  
         “There’s a problem in Lisbon,” one of them whispered back.  
  
         “A problem?” Paul asked loudly, suddenly engaged and alert.  
  
         _Shit_ , thought the manager.  _The last thing I need is a micromanaging star_.  He glared at his assistants.  “I’ll meet you in my room in 30 minutes,” he said harshly.  
  
         “Oh, no, don’t make them go.  We’re all having such a great time here, aren’t we?” John asked, swilling half his whiskey down in one go again.  
  
         “What problem is this?” Paul asked in a demanding voice.  
  
         “Yes, of course, you must tell Paul what the problem is.  No problem can _ever_ be solved without his input!”  John’s voice was slurry and a bit nasty, and it made all the assistants very uncomfortable.  John finished off his whiskey glass and went for more.  
  
         “You might consider easing off on that,” Paul said flatly.  
  
         “You’re such a fucking prig,” John spat at Paul.  
  
         The manager and his assistants didn’t know where to look.  
  
         “And _you’re_ drunk and talking nonsense,” Paul responded in a low, warning voice.  
  
         “And you’re a fucking _chicken_!” John shouted.  
  
         The manager looked around desperately for a way to escape from this train wreck, but found himself almost glued to the sofa, as were the assistants.  He thought perhaps he could leaven the atmosphere a bit. “I think it’s been a long, hard day and we should all be heading to bed…”  
  
         “Oh, Paulie isn’t going to be _heading_ in _bed_ tonight is he?  At least not for _me_!”  John declared.  
  
         A dead silence followed this announcement.  Paul had heard it as if an axe were falling and heading for his neck.  He squirmed in his seat and said, “Very clever, John.” He honestly couldn’t think of anything pithier to say under the circumstances.  
  
         “ _Clever_?  _Clever_?  Is _that_ what you call it?” John shouted.  He got dizzy from shouting, and sat down abruptly in his chair and took a long sip of his fourth full whiskey of the night.  “Is _that_ why you’re locking yourself in that room like a nervous virgin on her wedding night?”  
  
         _What the fuck_? The tour manager was thinking.  He looked, distressed, to his right and saw that all three assistants were staring at John and Paul, hanging on every word, and watching them as if it was a tennis match.  This was bad.  This sounded very much like a lover’s quarrel.  In fact, it was pretty hard to put any other construction on it.  He stood up and pushed the assistant’s arm that was seated to his right.  That man stood up, followed by the other two.  “We should be on our way,” Willis said, shoving his assistants towards and then out the door.  He shut the door firmly behind him and then herded his assistants on to the elevator.  He then directed them to his room, closed the door, looked at them, and said:  
  
         “Well!  That was something, wasn’t it?”  
  
         They all nodded silently.  
  
         “I don’t have to tell you that those confidentiality contracts you signed are for real.  You might get a one-time pay off from a tabloid, but you’d never work in this business again as long as you lived if you violate that contract.  I’ll see to that.  Do you understand?”  
  
         They all nodded.  
  
         “Good.  Then, let’s talk about the Lisbon problem in the morning, and go to your hotel and get some much-needed sleep.  Forget you ever witnessed that!”  
  
         They all wandered out in to the hall and went off to their own hotel, shocked - and one of them at least was a little disillusioned to find out that his heroes’ feet were made of clay.  _Queer_ clay.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
        “Well, that was quite a show you put on for our tour management team,” Paul said wryly, a few minutes after they’d been left alone in the suite.  
  
         “That’s the problem with you, Macca, you’re all about how other people see you…”  
  
         “And what are _you_ all about, John?” Paul asked in a velvety and dangerous voice.  
  
         John looked at Paul in momentary confusion, surprised to have the tables turned so effectively.  
  
         Paul didn’t wait for a response from John.  “Because it appears to me that what _you’re_ all about is tearing the hearts out of people who love you, and then stomping on them for good measure.  Then you’re surprised when you’ve chased them away.”  Paul’s voice sounded laden with sadness, and this affected John.  
  
         “Let’s don’t fight anymore,” John said miserably, his words slurring and blubbering.  “I don’t even know why we’re mad at this point.  Why are we mad?”  
  
         Paul sighed, and put his still half-full whiskey down on the side table.  He said, “I don’t know why you’re mad at me, but you are.  Instead of telling me what it is in plain English, you put me through that whole thing in Rome.  Apparently I failed to divine what you wanted of me, I didn’t say the right words, and so you got mad.”  
  
         John wasn’t really coherent at that point, but Paul could see the tears in his eyes.  Paul felt as though to hold out against John any longer would be a form of cruelty, so he allowed his face to relax into a smile.  
  
         “Let’s make a deal,” Paul said softly, seductively.  We’ll sleep together tonight, and in the morning you can tell me what is bothering you –you know, using actual words and all – and we’ll see if we can’t figure this mess out.  What do you think?”  
  
         John nodded in an uncoordinated way, and Paul grinned.  He got up, and helped John up, and led him into the master bedroom.  He helped John to undress, and then followed John into bed, and held him in his arms.  John was weeping, but Paul felt that was mainly due to the large amount of whiskey he had drunk.  Paul still wasn’t sure whether they would work this out, but he had decided he was no longer going to be part of the problem.  If John wanted to fight, it would have to be shadow boxing from now on, because Paul wasn’t going to fight back.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> South American Tour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never visited South America, but I have long wanted to. Maybe some day! So the next few chapters, in addition to telling the John and Paul love story, I am going to do a South American love story too. What a mystical and glorious place! I did as much research as I could, and could not find any evidence that either John or Paul ever went to the continent of South America prior to 1988. I do know for a fact the Beatles refused to perform there because they always refused to play in front of segregated audiences, which is why they did so few concerts in the southern states of the U.S.A. They would only play in integrated arenas. Having said all this, I do not know if Paul or John visited the continent of South America prior to 1988; I just know they did not perform there. I have heard on JHP that Yoko might have gone to Columbia (Catagena) on some weird witch-odyssey organized by some weird hanger-on, but I don't know if even that is true. So if I'm wrong on this fact, I apologize. It is not really integral to the story, thankfully.

         Neither John nor Paul had ever ventured into South America proper.  Back in the Beatles years they were offered the opportunity a few times, but all four of them had refused to perform in front of segregated audiences, and back in the ‘60s the promoters who were suggesting South American venues insisted upon segregation.   Wings had never toured there either; in the 1970’s there was a great deal of unrest in most of the major South American countries and it was thought, by Europeans at least, not to be safe.  While both men had vacationed in the Caribbean – and Paul had done so many times – the continent itself was a major mystery to John and Paul as their plane touched down in Caracas, Venezuela, on October 31, 1988.   By then they’d been on tour since the last week in August, about 10 weeks or so.  They had just survived a rough week, due to the fireworks they’d let off on each other in Rome and Madrid.  
  
         Lisbon had been the sultry quiet after a crashing storm.   The morning after the Madrid performance, they had slept in until 11 a.m.  Their flight to Lisbon was at 2 p.m.  They both felt hung-over:  John, because of the prodigious amount of whiskey he had consumed the night before, and Paul from being dragged through the emotional ups and downs of John on a rampage.  Paul, at his best, could barely tolerate that kind of drama, and he certainly wasn’t at his best at that moment in time.  He felt scorched by John’s fiery words and erratic conduct.  And then to be the focus of all that overwrought drama with an audience of underlings was both appalling and exhausting to him.  Still, ultimately, they had reached a kind of peace with each other before they went to bed.  
  
         But as each man awoke the next morning in Madrid, the cloud hanging over them – while no longer black – looked pretty grey and about to pour down rain.  John could barely remember what happened the night before – he only remembered having a shouting match with Paul, or, more like, he was shouting and Paul was being his infuriating cool and collected self – and he had a bad feeling he might have done so in front of the tour manager and his staff.   Meanwhile, Paul remembered all too well what had happened the night before, and he wondered how he was going to face the management team today and what he could possibly do to staunch the gossip that he was sure would emerge from the previous night’s debacle.   He also knew that he had a serious conversation ahead of him with John – the kind Paul generally avoided at all costs.  But it was clear that John wasn’t going to let him slide, so he knew he would be having to sit still while John verbally vomited all over him, and take it like a man.  _Like a man._ Paul chuckled at his word choice as he disentangled himself from John’s limbs.  
  
         Paul was up and showered and packing his things when John started making groaning and whimpering noises.  Paul had been just about ready to wake him up, so that they could make their flight on time.  He wasn’t hungry, and he doubted very much that John would be either, so he had let John sleep in a little.  After about 5 minutes of moaning, John finally spoke.  
  
         “So you slept with me last night?” he asked.  
  
         “Yeah, we slept.  That’s all we did,” Paul said calmly.  
  
         “I’m not a pariah anymore?” John asked grumpily.  
  
         Paul’s Irish went up, but he forced himself not to react.  At times like these, John didn’t want clever or veiled responses.  Plain old direct responses were best.  “You were never a pariah to me, John.”  
  
         John pushed himself up to a sitting position and felt his head pounding for all it was worth.  “How much did I drink?” he asked.  
  
         “You had four triple scotches,” Paul said – “if not a fifth of scotch, nearly so.”  
  
         “ _Ohhhhhh…_ ” John groaned.  “Why didn’t you stop me?”  His voice was actually accusatory.  
  
         Again, Paul told his Irish to sit down and shut up.  “I’m not your nursemaid, John.  But I did ask you to stop; you didn’t listen to me.”  
  
         John groaned again.  “How on earth am I supposed to function?” he asked.  
  
         Paul walked over to the bedside and picked up the dispirin tablets and water he had left there earlier, and handed them to John.  John took them, and swallowed the pills with the water chaser.  “Thanks,” he said gruffly.  
  
         “I’ve packed your things for you, and I’ve left some clean clothes out.  I’ll start a hot shower for you, and I suggest you go straight into it,” Paul was all business.  He knew there was no reasoning with John when he was hung-over, and any real conversation at that time would no doubt end in tears.  
  
         “Ta,” John said, lapsing back into Liverpudlian speak.  He carefully moved to the edge of the bed, and then slowly, ever so slowly, got up.  “When’s our flight?”  
  
         “We have to leave for the airport in less than an hour – about 40 minutes,” Paul answered in a very soft voice.  Loud sounds would have made John sick.  
  
         John aimed himself at the bathroom, and Paul was right behind him.  John was naked, so all Paul had to do was open the shower door for him, and help him in.  The hot water cascaded down John’s back as he leaned against the tiled stall.  “ _Ahhhhh….”_  
  
         Paul heard the noise in the shower and half-smiled in spite of his own subdued mood.  He knew that wonderful feeling when you’re hung-over and that first hard spray of hot water hits your back.  _Been there, done that, many times_.  
  
  


*****

  
  
        The flight to Lisbon had been very quiet, and so had been the limo ride to the hotel.  On the plane, John and Paul sat in first class, without talking.  It wasn’t because they were angry.  John kept drifting in and out of sleep.  When he was awake he was nursing a massive headache.  Paul was reading through some business papers and making notes for issues they needed to address for the Lisbon performance.  Evan Willis and his team had already headed for Lisbon, and were no doubt already there dealing with whatever “problem” they had there (as alluded to in the previous night’s conversation).  Paul was going to make it his business to find out what it was, and ensure that he approved of the resolution.   And he had to think carefully about how he was going to address John’s meltdown with Willis.  
  
         As soon as they got to the hotel, John climbed in to bed.  They had the day off, thankfully, so John would have time to recover from his epic drinks binge.  Paul, remembering _not_ to leave a note on the bathroom mirror (since evidently it now turned out that far from appreciating them, John was contemptuous of them), he called Willis and said he wanted to talk with him.  
  
         Naturally, Willis had been dreading this moment all day, but he knew it had to happen.  He wondered if Paul was going to tell him the tour was off, or that he and John would be staying in separate hotels, or that they had to cancel the next few shows.  He also knew it would be embarrassing for both Paul and him to discuss the revelations John had spouted out in front of the assistants the night before.  Still, that, too, had to be faced by both of them.  At least it was Paul alone; Willis didn’t think he could stand facing John Lennon at that moment to discuss such topics.  
  
         Paul came to Willis’s room pre-dinner, at about 5 p.m., and Willis had pulled out a bottle of whiskey – which he knew was Paul’s favorite tiff - and readied himself for what would probably be an excruciating interview.  The world was lucky to have such brilliant artists, but boy!  Was it hard to live with them!  Finally, the knock came.  
  
         Paul had many years of experience – decades, really – in learning how to school his face to look blithely unconcerned when embarrassing things were happening.  He’d learned how to do it when he was a child, because in his family you didn’t whine or cry in public, and even in private you didn’t bleed your emotions all over your loved ones and family members.   He became one of the world’s experts at hiding behind this “bland face” (as both John and Linda called it) after enduring Lennon’s gibes, the Beatles break-up, the war of words and songs with John in the ‘70s, and horrible album reviews, not to mention all of the drug busts.  So, tonight’s little conversation with the tour manager was just another one in a long list of embarrassing situations Paul had faced, many of which John had gotten them into, and out of which it was Paul’s job to extract them.  
  
         When Willis opened the door, he had a hard time meeting Paul’s eyes.  But Paul looked solid and businesslike.  “Good evening, Evan, thanks for meeting with me,” he said very politely, and moved easily into the room.  He saw the seat at the table with the whiskey pour and he smiled his gratitude to Willis, and then joked, “Hair of the dog that bit us, eh?”  
  
         Willis laughed in relief.  Thank heaven Paul wasn’t being awkward about this.  
  
         “I’m sorry about last night, Evan,” Paul said sincerely, after taking a sip of whiskey.  
  
         “It’s okay,” Willis said – but mainly because he didn’t know what else to say.  
  
         “No, it’s not okay.  It was entirely unprofessional, and you shouldn’t have been dragged into it.”  Paul’s words were firm and did not in any way beg for a disavowal, so Willis accepted the apology.  
  
         “How’s John?” He finally asked.  
  
         Paul laughed.  “Good question,” he said, grinning.  “He’s sacked out in bed, and is no doubt gone for the night.”  
  
         “He kinda overdid it,” Willis said cautiously.  
  
         “Yeah, _kinda_ ,” Paul made a comical face. He paused for a few key moments before saying what he had come to say. “I know you won’t repeat what you heard last night,” Paul said, his voice dropping to a lower, huskier, register.  
  
         “Of course not!”  Willis said staunchly, and Paul believed him.  
  
         “I’m more worried about your assistants,” Paul said.  
  
         Willis’s face clouded over.  “Me, too.  I read them the riot act last night.  I gave them the old _you’ll-never-work-in-this-town-again_ speech,” he was reassuring Paul that he had done what he could do to encourage the young men not to violate their confidentiality agreements.  
  
         Paul nodded and then shrugged in a way that sent the message that he knew from bitter experience that it was a spilt milk situation, and all he could really do was hope for the best.  “We’ll deny it if any of them go public,” Paul said honestly.  He watched Willis’s eyes for a moment until Willis got the message.  
  
         “So will I,” he said.  
  
         Paul nodded and smiled.  He took another sip of whiskey and said, “Do you have any questions of me?”  
  
         Willis was surprised that Paul had offered up any kind of explanation.  But he had to ask the question that he’d tried to ask the night before, if only to see if he could help them salvage the tour.  “If there is some way I can help you two resolve the problem, let me know what.  There are millions of pounds wrapped up in this tour, not to mention your reputations and credibility.  It’s been going so well.  It would be terrible if some…problem…derailed it all.”  
  
         Paul nodded as Willis spoke, in silent agreement.  He finally responded.  “In the end, it was my fault.”  
  
         Willis looked up, surprised.  It had been John who had been drunk and who had said all the provocative things.  Paul had been the model of decorum.  “How so?” he asked.  
  
         “Usually when John acts up, when he behaves erratically, I don’t react.  I just go along, and pretend all is well.  This time I didn’t.  I should have just swallowed my feelings, and let it blow over.  It isn’t as if I haven’t had a lifetime’s experience in dealing with John’s mercurial moods.”  
  
         Willis nodded sympathetically, and felt like he was seeing a whole side of Paul McCartney he never suspected was there.  
  
         “Anyway,” Paul said, his voice becoming more upbeat and cheerful, “I came here to promise to you that under no circumstances will I allow that to happen again on this tour.”  Paul waited a moment to watch the relief pass over Willis’s face, and then he issued the clincher:  
  
         “So, Evan, tell me.  What is this ‘problem’ we’re having in Lisbon?”  
  
  


*****

  
  
        Ultimately, the Lisbon show had gone well.  John had recovered physically from the _Showdown in Madrid (_ as Paul had started referring to it in his own mind), but not emotionally.  John was pathetically needy and emotional, constantly seeking reassurance that Paul was there next to him.   Paul recognized this as part of the old pattern. John would explode all over him, say or do unforgiveable things, and then come crawling back later begging for forgiveness and terrified he’d gone too far, and that Paul would leave him.  Paul had hoped they’d moved past that pattern – John’s therapy and his avoidance of mind-altering drugs had helped him make significant strides in the last few years.  But this latest behavior was distressing to Paul, who began to fear again that it would always be thus with John, and maybe he had to just accept this as reality or choose to move on.  
  
         So here they were landing in Caracas, Venezuela; it was their first time on the continent of South America.  Both of them were emotionally bruised, but were at least not angry at each other.  As they drove to their hotel, they maintained a comfortable silence.  John had moved over close to Paul, because he wanted to feel Paul’s thigh against his own.  It was the most he could opt for in a car driven by a Venezuelan security guard.  For all John knew, they killed homosexuals here and ate them for breakfast.  Paul was looking dreamily out of the window, and periodically he quickly patted John’s thigh.  
  
         The Hotel Avila was a state of the art grand hotel circa 1988, and that is where John and Paul took over a huge sweeping suite on the top floor that overlooked the swimming pool, which was surrounded by lush vegetation.   The rainy season was at its tail end, and extremely bright blue skies could periodically be seen forcing their way through skittish clouds passing over the horizon.    Paul found it to be breathtakingly beautiful as he lingered on the balcony.  
  
         Because this was their first time in South America, John and Paul had decided before they left to allow themselves plenty of time in between their six concerts there.  They wanted to do some old-fashioned sightseeing, and had a travel agent plan an elaborate side trip or two in each country they visited.  Now that they were here, and they were licking their wounds, so to speak, Paul wondered if the sightseeing was a good idea.  Perhaps John would not be up for it.  The Caracas concert was to take place tomorrow night, and then they had four full days before leaving for Santiago, Chile.   Their first side trip was to visit Angel Falls, in Canaima National Park, in the mountains on the tail end of the Amazon River Valley, near Venezuela’s border with Brazil.  The trip in and up to the waterfall and back took at least three days and two nights.  They would fly in to Canaima on a privately chartered plane, where they would stay in one of the camps that had cottages for rent, and where they would meet a private tour guide to take them on a canoe trip, and then on a hike up to view the Falls.  
  
         Paul knew he had to approach John about whether the side trip was something he still wanted to do.  He found John relaxing on the giant comfy sofa in the sitting room area of the suite, eyeing the room service menu.  John was looking a little perkier now that the long flight from Lisbon was over, and they were in such comfy surroundings.  
  
         John caught sight of Paul and asked, “Are you hungry babe?”  
  
         “A bit, yes.  Are you sure you want to eat in, though?  We could find a restaurant with some local color if you’d prefer.”  
  
         “Tonight, let’s stay in.  We’ve a lot to talk about.”  
  
         Paul gulped and said, “Right.”  He knew he couldn’t avoid this forever!  
  
         Paul ordered their food (because John still hated to use the telephone, and would avoid it if at all possible; at least now he would use it if there was no other alternative).  As they waited for the meal to arrive, Paul poured some sparkling water for them both (trying to avoid the liquor cabinet in its entirely), and sat opposite from John in an easy chair.  
         
         John looked at the water glass quizzically, and then looked up at Paul and saw the mischievous eyebrow lift.  “Very funny, luv,” John said playfully.  
  
         “I think it’s best if we have a completely sober conversation this time,” Paul chuckled.  “If we’re going to do this thing, let’s do it right.”  
  
         John lifted his glass up and said “Cheers!” and Paul reciprocated.  “So, Paul, we had a huge fight.  Do you know what it was about?”  
  
         Paul was a little suspicious of John’s approach, but decided he couldn’t start mealy-mouthing at the start, or it would be all downhill from there.  “You were mad at me about something, and I’m not clear what it is.  I said the wrong thing again, but I’m not sure what wrong thing I said, either.”  
  
         John listened to this and smiled to himself.  Paul was making himself sound clueless again, but really, by now – after all these years - John knew that Paul wasn’t _pretending_ to be clueless about such things.  He just _was_ clueless.  To be angry about it was like resenting the sun for going down at night.  “I shouldn’t have pushed you,” John finally said.  “That night in Paris.  I should have just let the moment be.  But I wanted more.”  
  
         “More _what_?”  Paul asked flatly.  He had no idea at all what John wanted that Paul hadn’t already given him; maybe he _never_ had known!  
  
         “I can’t always read your mind, you know,” John said conversationally.  “I can sometimes, but not all the time.  What I can’t read sometimes is how you _feel._ I can have a general idea, but when it comes to how you feel about _me_ , I’m completely tone deaf.  I can’t read your mind about it.”  
  
         Paul was listening to John while he talked in cryptic circles.  He was none the wiser by the time John limped to an end.  “I didn’t understand that,” Paul said honestly.  “Can you tell me in plain English what you want from me?”  
  
         John was actually surprised at Paul’s request.  It was so – so – open and direct!  Wonders never cease!  He asked for it, so John was going to give it to him.  “I want you to tell me how you feel more often.  I mean, candidly and without reservation.  I don’t want to be just one of your compartments, separate from all your other compartments.  I want to be free to wander into all your compartments at will.  I want you to let down your guard with me.  Can you do that?”  
  
         “Compartments?” Paul repeated, confused.  
  
         “It’s what you do, Pud,” John said very gently.  “You have everybody separated inside your life, and we only get to see glimpses of the other parts of your life very rarely.  It’s frustrating, and we feel managed.  It’s not a good way to feel.  Has no one ever told you that before?”  
  
         Paul was staring at John, but his memory was ringing.  His mother, misreading a smile on his face when he was in trouble over a naughty drawing at school, fighting off tears and pleading with him, “It isn’t funny!  Why won’t you tell me why you did it?”  A very upset and crying Jane Asher in 1967, begging him to “Let me in!  Let me in!”  Linda, at the time he was in a steep depression in 1970, telling him “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me how you feel.”   And John, writing him a song in 1973 to apologize for the things he’d said about Paul to reporters, with lyrics that included: “ _I never could read your mind_.”    
  
         “Oh.”  Paul said.  He sat silently, and had nothing to say.  He could think of not one thing to say.  He knew John was knocking on a most private door.  A door he never opened for anyone, and hoped never to open for anyone.  A door behind which his fear lived, a fear he wanted no one to see or know about, as if it were shameful.  It _was_ shameful to Paul.  To show fear, embarrassment, sadness or anger to other people was a sign of weakness in Paul’s book.  He didn’t hold anyone else up to that impossible standard, only himself.  Paul had never questioned why he was like that.  He just _was_.  
  
         “Baby, look at me,” John said softly.  Paul had been staring at his hands.  
  
         Reluctantly, Paul looked up.  
  
         “You don’t have to tear down all the walls at once, you know,” John said reasonably.  “All I really wanted to hear you say was how much you love me; just not the _fact_ of it, but the _why and how_ of it.  You know - a description – like lyrics.  I know you can do it.  Look at _Maybe I’m Amazed_.  That was a very concrete, specific set of lyrics.  You were telling Linda exactly what she meant to you, and why.  You have never done that for me.  And that’s all I want for now.  Once I’ve got that, though, I’m warning you, I’ll want more.  But unless you take that first step, we’ll never get any deeper in our relationship.”  
  
         Paul cleared his throat and looked down at his hands.  John was wrong.  He had told John how and why he loved him in song.  But John apparently didn’t know the song was about him.  “I did write a song like that for you,” he said very quietly without looking up.  
  
         “Oh?  Which one?”  
  
         “ _Here, There, and Everywhere_.”  
  
         John was struck dumb.  That exquisite, gorgeous song that everyone thought was about Jane Asher.  _He_ had thought it _reeked_ of Jane Asher.  Perhaps it was the best Beatle song ever, and it was written for _him_.    “We all thought it was so much like Jane,” John said, stumbling on his words a bit.  
  
         “It couldn’t be about Jane.  At the time I wrote it she was always off on acting tours.  There was only one person in my life who was ‘here, there, and everywhere’ at that time, and that person was you.”  Paul looked up and spoke to John with conviction.  
  
         “Well,” John said, not sure what to say next. “You see, I never knew that.  All these years!  If you’d only told me!”  
  
         Paul nodded.  Yes, he was afraid to tell people how much he loved and depended on them.  It made him feel so utterly vulnerable, and Paul hated to feel vulnerable.  He wanted always to be in control of his life, his work, his money, and his emotions.  “I couldn’t have told you then,” Paul said in an apologetic tone.  “I wasn’t strong enough.”  This was a huge admission for Paul to make.  He, who wanted always to seem invincible while also appearing to be just a good guy sailing through life, admitting that he was too emotionally weak to proclaim his feelings _for_ John _to_ John.  
  
         John was eyeing Paul with compassion.  He had pushed him hard, and Paul had given up a small piece of his privacy to him just then, and John thought it would be a good idea to stop torturing the poor man.  After the terrible way things went wrong in Rome, John now knew that he had to learn to be grateful for everything he got from Paul, and not to compare it unfavorably to what he thought he deserved.   Little by little he would unlock the compartments, and then he would be able to see the whole vista of his lover’s mind.  Patience was required, and John made a vow to himself that he was going to develop patience starting that very moment.  
  
         “Thanks for telling me about that, Paul,” John said with honest gratitude.  “It means a lot to me.  Tomorrow, when you sing that song in concert, I will know you are singing it to and about me.  That’s an amazing gift.”  
  


*****

  
  
        That night during the concert, Paul not only sang a heartfelt ‘ _Til There Was You_ for John’s benefit, but he also sang an intensely personal and yearning testament to his love for John Lennon:  
  


_To lead a better life_   
_I need my love to be here_

_Here, making each day of the year_   
_Changing my life with a wave of her hand_   
_Nobody can deny that there's something there_

_There, running my hands through her hair_   
_Both of us thinking how good it can be_   
_Someone is speaking, but she doesn't know he's there_

_I want her everywhere_   
_And if she's beside me I know I need never care_   
_But to love her is to need her_   
_Everywhere, knowing that love is to share_   
_Each one believing that love never dies_   
_Watching their eyes, and hoping I'm always there_

_I want her everywhere_   
_And if she's beside me I know I need never care_   
_But to love her is to need her_   
_Everywhere, knowing that love is to share_   
_Each one believing that love never dies_   
_Watching their eyes and hoping I'm always there_

_I will be there, and everywhere_   
_Here, there and everywhere_

       As Paul sang, John’s eyes filled with tears, which he tried to hide with a pleasant smile.  He wished they lived in a world where he and Paul didn’t have to hide their love behind feminine pronouns.   
  
  


*****

  
  
        The side-trip to Canaima and Angel Falls was staggeringly beautiful and exciting.  Deep in the Venezuelan jungle they helped row a canoe down one of the many tributaries and even hiked a good 30 or 40 minutes up to the vantage point.  Back in the camp in Canaima, they’d had wonderful food, although Paul had a hard time persuading everyone that he really _really_ didn’t want any meat.  They all thought he was being polite, and saving the meat for others.  John, on the other hand, dove into the meat with gusto.  “Sorry mate!” He said cheerfully, as he placed another piece of spicy barbequed meat in his mouth.  “I can’t resist!”  Paul pouted a bit over it, but he could never stay mad at John.  John was a force unto himself, and you more or less had to _experience_ him, as if he was a wild weather front.         
  
         While there, in the little town, they went shopping, and studied all the native wares, unmolested and apparently even unrecognized.  There were brightly colorful textiles everywhere.  John was blown away by them, and ordered lengths of several of the fabrics, and had them sent to London.  He envisioned using the textiles to brighten up his new London house.  
  
         Instead of going straight back to Caracas, they had their private plane drop them in the pre-Columbian territory Timoto-Cuica, where they went to see the ruins and again browse amongst the wares.  John bought a number of items as gifts, and a few things for himself.  
  
         When they got back to Caracas, on their last day there before moving on to Lima, Peru, the two had gone to a museum to view pre-Columbian art, with which they’d become infatuated after visiting Timoto-Cuica, and John decided they needed to buy a piece of pre-Columbian art for their home, particularly something like one of the amazing ceramic pottery statues.  In aid of this, Paul had rustled up a highly respected Venezuelan art dealer, who promised to be on the lookout for one, once he heard that price really wasn’t much of an object.  Also while at the museum, they had come upon a set of ancient pre-Columbian male jewelry, including an elaborately braided piece made out of green and imperial jadite beads, almost like a full-throated necklace, that would have been sewn on to a noble man’s loincloth.  Seeing this, John had turned to Paul and said, “Those were the days! Men used to get to decorate their cocks!”  Paul had laughed along with John, but when he spoke to the art dealer later that night he asked him to also rustle up, along with some ceramic pottery, a beaded loincloth piece – it didn’t have to be a legitimate antiquity - that he planned to surprise John with later.  It was the perfect answer to the perennially vexing question:  _What do you give a man who has everything?_  
  
  


*****

  
  
                 The next day they moved on to their next stop.  Lima, Peru was an exotic mixture of European grandeur and modern squalor.  On one hill overlooking the city, shambled homes were built in terraces, cheek by jowl, each painted a different bright tropical color.  It appeared quaint and tacky at the same time.  But the cliffs that dropped down to the cold Pacific were breathtaking, the beaches were peerless, and the center city plaza was vast and surrounded by ornate European buildings.  They might have been in Spain or Lisbon by the looks of those buildings, except for the fact that they were painted a gaudy mustard yellow.  
  
         Once ensconced in their top floor suite in the Hotel Bolivar, they talked excitedly about going out on the town and going to the nightclubs where Latin music pulsed, and people drank strange concoctions, featuring exotic fruits.  They each dressed up to the nines, and their host – one of the promoters of the concert, a very successful and distinguished businessman from one of Peru’s oldest families – met them in the lobby and whisked them off for some first class night life.  They returned to their hotel suite at 2 a.m. tipsy and giggly.  They each helped each other (clumsily) divest themselves of their clothes, and eagerly jumped in to bed, where they were soon grabbing, and moaning, and sweating.  It was a fast, almost animalistic joinder, but all they were doing was rubbing their cocks together, and enjoying the friction.  Neither one of them was sober enough to manage the logistics of anal or even oral sex, so this was the quickest and best way to scratch where they both desperately itched.  In this way they soon both came, and afterwards lay on their backs, facing the ceiling, still giggling and panting and melting into the mattress.  They had gone at it so fast they’d forgotten to turn off the bedside lamp, so grudgingly Paul moved (groaning and complaining the whole time) and pulled the chain to darken the room.  John turned over into Paul’s arms, and placed his arm across Paul’s chest, and they fell into an amicable and peaceful sleep.  
  
  


*****

  
  
        The next day they went to visit an art gallery in downtown Lima, and had lunch in a classic European style restaurant with Peruvian overtones.   John ate something that didn’t agree with him, and so they went back to the hotel.  While John slept, Paul decided to go look at some Peruvian jewelry.  He thought he should buy something for Linda and the girls, and maybe also John.  He was only interested in antique and vintage pieces, because it was who made them and why that was important, not so much the way they looked.  To wear such pieces would be like honoring the ghosts of the artisans who had originally made them, and the people who had originally worn them.  What he saw in the store seriously impressed him.  He ended up purchasing a temple fiber necklace for Linda, with an exquisite black onyx in the center.  It was just the sort of unusual but not gaudy thing that Linda would love.  For the girls he bought gold earrings with turquoise that were of a very high quality.  But John – John always preferred silver jewelry, and he saw some fine imitations of Incan engraved silver bracelets.  They all seemed a bit new and over the top, however, and Paul wanted something rather more ancient and unique for John.  He made a note to find a jewelry dealer in Lima who dealt in genuine antiquities to see if he could find one of the silver bands with one-of-a-kind and original Incan engraving.  
  
         Paul didn’t consciously know why all of a sudden he wanted to shower John with unique and priceless gifts.  But an objective observer might think he was trying to show John, through clear and unambivalent actions, how much John meant to him in a way he had never done before.  
  
  


*****

  
  
        Their concert was at 8:15 p.m., and John was thankfully able to get off his sickbed and make some kind of a showing.  Paul had done the sound check, and John arrived just a half hour before the show, looking green around the gills.  Paul was proud of him, because he knew John still felt ill, so he told the musicians he was taking the laboring oar that night.  They scotched all the songs that John sang that required strenuous singing, and then inserted as many Paul songs where he had to sing strenuously instead.  On a couple of occasions, John indicated that he feared he was going to be ill, so Paul would signal the band, and they would launch into one of the songs – out of order – that Paul sang solo, so that John could inauspiciously leave the stage to use the bathroom and return by the time the song was over.  The audience was none the wiser, and had a grand old time because when John did sing, it was with a dedicated intensity.  Because they had switched the order of the songs all around, Paul had already sung _Yesterday,_ which was one of their encore songs.  So on this night, John and Paul sang _Real Love_ as their final encore – leaving the more throaty and energetic closers for another night.  
  
         The moment was magic, those who attended the concert later said, because the two men had come out for their last encore, both dressed entirely in black, and the band was there, too, but recessed a bit in the back, and playing in a very unobtrusive way, with the exception of Robbie’s plaintive lead guitar.  John and Paul faced each other, not the audience, at one mic, and sang to each other.  They each knew who it was they were singing to, and why, and both of them were suffused by just barely concealed emotion.  The audience felt the connection, and to them it was a magical ending to an amazing concert.  John sang the first two verses solo, and then Paul joined in with a perfect high harmony:  
  


_All my little plans and schemes_   
_Lost like some forgotten dream_   
_Seems like all I really was doing_   
_Was waiting for you_

_Just like little girls and boys_   
_Playing with their little toys_   
_Seems like all they really were doing_   
_Was waiting for you_

_Don't need to be alone_   
_No need to be alone_

_It's real love_   
_It's real, yes it's real love_   
_It's real_

_From this moment on I know_   
_Exactly where my life will go_   
_Seems that all I really was doing_   
_Was waiting for love_

_Don't need to be afraid_   
_No need to be afraid_

_It's real love_   
_It's real, yes it's real love_   
_It's real_

_Thought I'd been in love before,_   
_But in my heart I wanted more_   
_Seems like all I really was doing_   
_Was waiting for you_

_Don't need to be alone_   
_No need to be alone_

_It's real love_   
_Yes it's real, yes it's real love_   
_It's real, yes it's real love..._


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The South American tour and sight-seeing continues, a tour assistant gets the boot, they spend some romantic time together, and then John and Paul make some new friends.

        The day after the concert, John felt much better, and he and Paul went off on their Peruvian side-adventure.  They were going to visit the ancient town of Cusco and the magnificent Incan ruins in Macho Picchu.  They were flying into Cusco on a privately chartered plane, and meeting a Peruvian tour guide.  They were staying in an old Colonial mansion that had been turned into a hotel.   Again they pottered around the native art and jewelry stores and booths, but this time they were frequently recognized by international tourists who were visiting the town at the same time.  
  
         They were walking down one little side street (they had found that less obvious than wandering around right in the plaza), and saw a couple, German (by the look of their guidebook cover), approaching.  John and Paul could both see the _oh shit! Is that who we think they are?_ looks on the couple’s faces, but before they could say a word John burst out in a comical excited feminized voice,  
  
         “ _Oh mein Gott it’s John and Paul_!”  
  
         The couple laughed, and so did Paul.  They spoke with them amicably for a few moments, signed autographs, and posed for a photograph with the couple and then moved on.  
  
         Later, at lunch, they sat in a dark corner of a little café hoping not to be recognized, or at least not bothered.  But halfway through the mean some Japanese tourists recognized them, and walked right up to them shyly, bowing and pointing at their cameras.  John was not happy to be interrupted in the middle of a meal.  This was something that he didn’t appreciate.  Why couldn’t fans wait until they were finished with their meal, when they were leaving the restaurant?  Paul could see the storm gathering on John’s forehead, and gave him a slight kick on the shin under the table.  John’s gloomy expression met Paul’s _cool your jets_ one, and he subsided.  Paul stood up and shook their hands, and then explained in a soft warm voice and a variety of hand gestures that they’d be happy to pose for them later, outside, after they’d finished their meal.  The tourists were gracious, and walked away from them after several bows.  
        
         While studying some beautiful textiles in one booth, they were recognized by a group of young American and Australian college students who were excited at seeing them, and loud about it.  John and Paul joined in their silliness.  
  
         “Are you going to Machu Picchu tomorrow?” One of the girls asked eagerly.  
  
         “That’s our plan,” John said amiably.  
  
         “Can we take a picture of you with us on the top of the temple?” she asked.  
  
         John laughed.  “If you can find us there, we’ll be happy to oblige, but we’re not going to plan our day around it.”  
  
         The college students laughed too, taking John’s words good-naturedly, the way they were meant, and then they each took a few photos of themselves with John and Paul with the textiles as background just in case they missed them up on the mountain.  The students were all giggling and watching them go as John and Paul tried to nonchalantly wander away, making sure to focus totally on whatever wares were before their eyes.  Gradually, they lost sight of the kids, and were able to enjoy their privacy again.  In this manner they spent a very pleasant and leisurely afternoon.  
  
         The trip to Machu Picchu was another fantastic adventure.  The strenuous hikes up the mountain and then up to the temple left John and Paul gasping for air.  When they got to the top of the temple, John was bent over from the waist trying to catch his breath, while Paul still had some spring in his step.  He’d always had more physical stamina than John. The scenery was just as staggering as they had expected, and sat for a long time on one of the walls surrounding the lower ruins, just taking it all in.  They spoke softly to each other about how beautiful it was, and how glad they were being able to see this wonderful place together and alone.  Paul took film of it, as he had of the Angel Falls, and John took some still photos with his Leica.  Since everyone there was so transfixed by the views, they mostly did not notice or recognize John and Paul, which suited them fine.  At one point, while on the top of the temple, they had seen the young students from the day before, but they had just climbed down from the temple blissfully unaware that they had left their prey behind them.  John and Paul looked at each other and smiled.  _Escape!_  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       Santiago, Chile.  As their plane landed, Paul looked out the window and saw the magnificent Andes mountain range with snowy tops towering over a vast, European-style city.  It was awe-inspiring.  He nudged John, and then pointed to the window, and John leaned across Paul to stare at the sight.  
  
         “ _Cor, blimey_ , I’ve never seen anything even remotely like this!” John said with reverence.  
  
         Paul agreed.  “I can’t believe I’ve put off visiting South America for so long.  Every single place we’ve seen has been astoundingly beautiful and fascinating.  It’s just like Europe, but not at all like Europe.”  
  
         John laughed, because he spoke “Paul”, and he knew what Paul meant.  Paul had a way of saying twisters like this, and many people ended up confused.  Once Paul had told a friend of theirs who had asked them if they were alike, “ _yes, we’re exactly alike, except we’re completely different_.”  It had been left to John to explain to the poor man that what Paul meant was, they were like the positive and negative images of a photograph; the images are identical except opposite, where one is black the other was white.  _Ooohhhh_ the man had said.  
  
  


*****

  
  
       The tour manager, Evan Willis, had arrived at the classic Hotel Orly in Santiago where he was to have a small single room, and had arranged for the tour staff to be settled at a lesser-priced hotel nearby.  John and Paul would of course be sharing the penthouse suite in the Orly. It was quite elaborate, encompassing two floors.  The reception rooms and two bedrooms were on the first floor of the penthouse suite, and an ornate staircase led to a grand, elegant master suite on the second floor.  Willis had had a tour of it earlier to make sure it was up to snuff, and it certainly was.  One of his assistants had made sure the right foods, liquors, and essentials were stocked in the suite.  
  
         Then Willis had gone to the concert site – a huge soccer stadium – to see to all the details for tomorrow night’s show.  As he came around a corner he overheard a voice saying,  
  
         “John and Paul are fucking each other, you know.”  
  
         Willis froze in his tracks and listened.  He recognized the voice.  It was one of his assistants - one of the witnesses of the _Showdown in Madrid_.  
  
         Another voice – one of the permanent backstage crew apparently, based on his thick East London accent – said sarcastically, “Yeah, like they’d tell you.  Like you’re in their inner circle.”  
  
         Willis immediately interrupted before his assistant could say anything more, and came around the corner saying in a loud, stern voice, “Benson – what are you doing here?”  
  
         His assistant, Joe Benson, heard his boss’s voice, and jumped as if he’d just seen a ghost.  ( _Like the ghost of his former career, perhaps_ , Willis thought nastily).  “Oh, just checking that everything’s cool here,” Benson fibbed nervously.  
  
         “So – _is it_?” Willis asked, his eyes boring into Benson’s.  
  
         “Is what?” Benson asked, his heart still thumping, and his brain racing.  
  
         “Is everything here ‘ _cool_ ’?”  Willis’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.  
  
         “Aaaah – yeah,” Benson said uncertainly.  He stood there stupidly looking at his boss until Willis made _a what-are-you-waiting- for_ gesture.  
  
         “I gave you a list of things to do, and sitting around spreading false gossip with the backstage crew wasn’t one of them,” Willis said with an angry, taut voice.  The crewmembers standing around didn’t know where to look, because they knew Benson was in deep doo-doo.  “When you finish your jobs, Benson, I want to see you in my hotel room at 5 p.m. sharp.  Do you understand?”  
  
         “Yeah, sure, of course,” Benson mumbled, running off to regain his composure and hopefully complete some of his assigned tasks.  Willis made a mental note to run through Benson’s list of tasks before he left the stadium to make sure they had been done, and done properly.  
  
         Willis turned to the crewmembers still hanging around, all of who were permanent and not local crew.  “Is this your break or something?”  
  
         “Yeah,” one of them said.  
  
         “Fine.  But I don’t approve of backstage gossip.  It leads to dissention and distraction. I won’t tolerate it, and what it will bring you is an immediate ticket home if you’re caught.”  
  
         “Don’t worry,” another one of the crew said, “we all know that Benson’s full of shit.  He’s always parading around here acting like he’s hot shit.  We don’t believe a word he says.”  
  
         Willis nodded in approval, and then went back to his own list of tasks.  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
      
         John and Paul were in their luxurious suite by the time Willis got back to the hotel, and he phoned them up to see if they needed anything.  Paul mentioned that he had some last minute notes for the concert and invited him up to the suite for a before dinner drink.  
  
         “It will have to be in about a half hour.  I have an assistant to fire.”  
  
         “Oh?”  Paul was surprised to hear this.  Thus far he hadn’t heard of any conflict amongst the tour staff or crew, which was relatively unusual for a long rock tour.  
  
         “Loose lips sink ships,” Willis said cryptically.  
  
         “One of the blokes who overheard?” Paul asked quietly, turning his back so that John couldn’t hear what he said.  He knew John would be very upset to know that his indiscretions had led to this.  
  
         “Yup.  I just bought his ticket back to London, and he doesn’t know it yet, but his short career in the rock tour world has come to an untimely end.”  
  
         “Won’t that encourage him to sell his story to the tabloids?” Paul asked.  
  
         “Probably,” Willis said matter-of-factly, “but I’ll just release a statement that I fired him for cause, and he’s made up the story to retaliate.  Gossipers and blackmailers simply cannot be tolerated or trusted on a tour.  They do it one time, and that’s it in my rulebook, and most tour managers go by the same or a similar set of rules, so they won’t want to hire him either.”  
  
         “Remind me never to piss you off,” Paul chuckled, grateful to and impressed by Willis’s leadership abilities and trustworthiness, and instantly forgiving him for the lapse in judgment about John in Rome.  “Ok, Evan, we’ll see you at half past the hour.”   
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       The next day news of Benson’s abrupt departure ran through the ranks of the staff, the crew, and finally even the musicians.  The rumor was he was caught spreading false gossip about John and Paul, and Willis had sacked him and sent him packing.  This sobered up everyone working on the tour.  None of them wanted to end up like Benson.  You piss off the biggest artists in the music world – bar none – and your ass is grass in the industry.  
  
         John was protected from the information, or at least the part that Benson’s gossiping had to do with the argument he had witnessed in Madrid.  Paul really didn’t have the heart to tell him, because it would dawn on John how much damage he might have done to their reputations.  _No point in both of us worrying about it_ , Paul thought to himself.  This was typical.  Paul carried the burden of the hard decisions and the bad news in their partnership, but also – for the most part - in their friendship.  Paul was much more emotionally stable than John, and dealt with problems and managed stress fairly well, so early on in their relationship Paul had taken on most of the stressful aspects of their work and personal lives in order to spare John.  John didn’t even knew how many times Paul had stepped in and absorbed blows for him.  Paul absorbed them completely and kept on moving, all without breaking a sweat or making a sound.  Paul knew that it was better that way.  
  
         Paul didn’t have a lot of time to ponder upon this fact, because he was busy doing an extended sound check.  The head sound engineer had told him that they were having some real problems with echo in that stadium, and so Paul had come to see if he could help in some way by singing some of the actual songs they’d be doing that night.  (Normally at sound check, they’d play a bunch of songs they never did during the concert, just to keep from getting stale.)  John had stayed behind in the hotel, and would show up for the tail end of sound check.  John apparently now was bored by sound check too, and the brunt of it had fallen on Paul, who actually enjoyed it.  To Paul, music wasn’t just the finished product.  It was the whole process of creating, making, and performing it that he found addictive, so he didn’t consider the extra hours he spent in the studio or at sound check to be a burden in any way.  It was actually a good thing that John hated it, because if they both loved to do it as much as Paul did they would have killed each other by now, and if they neither of them loved to do it, Paul would instead be teaching art and English in Liverpool while leading the school choir, and John probably would have died in a ditch in the Dingle by now, after a drunken brawl brought on by his nasty sense of humor.   
  
  


*****

  
      
         It was a particularly poignant moment in the concert that night, when Paul – at the piano – accompanied John, stroking an acoustic guitar, who sang the plaintive plea, _Grow Old With Me_.  Even the musicians and those watching off to the wings, who had heard the song several times already on the tour, noticed the new and delicate way John had threaded his way through what were quite sentimental lyrics for him to have written.   Paul could only see John from behind; there was an aura of white light surrounding John’s hair, and the edges of his hair shone a brilliant auburn in that white light.  Paul could see the simple stance, and he could imagine John’s beautiful wrists and hands, strumming the strings.  In that moment Paul knew why he wanted to buy John jewelry.  John had the most beautiful hands and wrists he’d ever seen on a man –Linda had beautiful hands and wrists, too, but right now he was favoring John’s.  
  
         John allowed himself to drift into his mind as he sang, conjuring up scenes for a future he prayed would someday be:  Paul and him having a walk in a park, arm in arm, maybe even there would be a cane or two, and they would be very old but still in love.  With his image in mind, he sang the song in a way he never had before:  
  
  


_Grow old along with me_   
_The best is yet to be_   
_When our time has come_   
_We will be as one_

_God bless our love_   
_God bless our love_

_Grow old along with me_   
_Two branches of one tree_   
_Face the setting sun_   
_When the day is done_

_God bless our love_   
_God bless our love_

_Spending our lives together_   
_Counting the years together_   
_World without end_   
_World without end_

_Grow old along with me_   
_Whatever fate decrees_   
_We will see it through_   
_For our love is true_

_God bless our love_   
_God bless our love_

 

 

*****

  
  
       The flight from Santiago’s international airport on their privately chartered jet to Puerto Natales airport took over three hours.  John and Paul were going to spend a few days in Chilean Patagonia.  Neither one of them was the camping, hiking, and canoeing type, so they were staying at a luxury hotel in Puerto Natales, where they could visit Torres del Paine national park for a few days on a personally guided car trip.  The day they arrived, they checked into their chic hotel, and then decided to go check out the local artists’ wares.  John had been purchasing fabrics everywhere they went, and they both had settled on a few paintings and sculptures for their new London home.  But today, Paul was looking for something for John.  He had decided his Christmas gift was going to be an amazing piece of jewelry from each country they had visited in South America.  He and Linda didn’t give each other lavish gifts, nor did they shower their children with excessive expensive gifts.  It wasn’t important to Linda, material things.  So he had always given her more personal gifts whenever possible.   Paul knew for a fact that John had never been the recipient of lavish personal gifts.  Paul had surmised, based on what John had told him, that Yoko had given John gifts that were either obvious and unimaginative, like ties and Rolexes, or crazy fucked up gifts, like weird enchanted crystals and love potions and shit.   Paul thought that a person as rare and special as John deserved gifts worthy of him.  John wanted to feel special and cherished, so Paul was going to be the one to make John feel that way.  
  
         Puerto Natales was a lovely place to visit, because the only tourists at this time of year appeared to be intrepid hikers and campers from all over the world, and such types were usually not all that in to things like rock ‘n roll.  John and Paul strolled through the town in anonymity, stopping periodically to admire the natives’ wares, and to chat with other shoppers who did not appear to recognize them.  At one point, Paul left John in a textiles shop haggling over a length of material, and wandered out into the square.  Soon he came upon a small store that featured antique Chilean jewelry.  _Just the thing_.  It was a dusky little shop that did not appear to do a lot of business, probably because, Paul noted, the prices were astronomical.  But the pieces were priceless.  He eventually found exactly what he was looking for – a beautiful antique man’s silver engraved ring, with exquisite inlaid Chilean lapis lazuli.  It cost a small fortune, but Paul had it wrapped in gauze, and he quickly stuck it in his pocket.  He wandered back outside and saw John standing on the sidewalk searching for him.  Their eyes met, and they continued their perambulation, each quite content with their individual purchases.  
  
  


*****

  
  
       That night at the hotel, after dinner, they fell into each other’s arms in their king size bed.  
  
         “This has been the most romantic trip I’ve ever been on,” John said lazily, pushing a loose strand of hair behind Paul’s ear.  “I’ve felt as though I’ve been floating on a cloud ever since we set foot on the continent.”  
  
         Paul smiled, and although John couldn’t really see the smile in the dark, he sensed it.  
  
         “I’m sorry we had to go through all that drama to get to this place between us, but I’ve never felt closer to you,” John said to Paul, and then leaned in to kiss him gently on the lips.  
  
         “Me too,” Paul whispered as soon as his lips were free.  
  
         John knew he would be satisfied with that tidbit for the time being, and reached over to pull Paul closer to him.  Every day it seemed Paul had opened up a tiny bit, giving him little glimpses into his deepest heart.  John wished they could stay there forever, just winging from one exotic city where they were barely recognized to the other, and never going home where there were families, friends, enemies, reporters, photographers, fans, and hangers on to deal with.  He knew this was not possible, and feared that when they got back to London, after their last South American tour leg, Paul would start drifting away from him bit by bit again.  
  
         That night the love they made was warm and sensual.  It was the kind of sex that touches your soul, and makes a permanent imprint there.  John knew that every single day of the tour Paul had called Linda and talked to his children, and that every single night, he called them again.  But since they’d arrived in South America, Paul always went into a spare bedroom and did it as unobtrusively as possible, trying to protect John from having to hear the endearments he shared with his family.  In a way, John felt bad that he had – by his behavior in Rome and Madrid – caused Paul to push his family further away from John’s eyes.  John was the kind of person who wanted his cake whole, and wanted to eat it too.  He wanted to feel part of Paul’s family, as it was such a big part of Paul’s life, but he was tortured by being exposed to it as well.  It was insoluble, and John had long since decided he would have to find a way to live with it because to live without Paul was unthinkable.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       The lazy visit to the beautiful Patagonian national park had ironed every wrinkled nerve out of John and Paul’s bodies.  It was like a balm to the soul.  But soon they were on their way to Buenos Aires, Argentina, that romantic port city on the Atlantic coast.  
  
         Their hotel was an elaborate Italianate edifice called the Palacio Duhau.   John and Paul had arrived there via limo, and had driven down the hugely wide and impressive Avenida 9 de Julio that boasted it was the widest street in the world, and it certainly seemed to be so to John and Paul.    They’d passed a giant white marble obelisk, reminiscent of the Washington Monument they’d once visited in Washington D.C., back in 1964.  
  
         Almost as soon as they were delivered to their hotel suite, they had decided to go out and sightsee.  They had become rather intrepid sightseers in the last few weeks, and they each knew, without actually discussing it with each other, that this would be a staple of their future vacations together.  It was something they both loved to do – wander around old city centers, and poke in little shops and kiosks to see what new and amazing things they could find.  In a way, they surprised each other that they’d rediscovered this love of exploring foreign cities.  They had done this often way in the past, starting with their trip to Paris together in 1961, and continuing through their after hours exploration of the world’s greatest cities’ wildest nightclubs while touring with the Beatles.  Linda had reattached Paul to spelunking during the Beatles’ breakup to distract him.  But since then, somehow, they had both for the most part let those adventures slip by.  Each of them, individually, vowed never to let that happen again.  
  
         On this day’s expedition, Paul found just what he was looking for in an antique store – it was an engraved silver jewelry box, about 18 cm by 23 cm, and handsomely masculine in appearance.  He spoke quietly with the owner of the store while John was engaged elsewhere, and arranged to have the package delivered to his home in London.  
  
  


*****

  
  
       That night they had decided to treat the tour management staff and all the roadies and musicians to an elaborate vegetarian dinner in a pricey classic Argentinian restaurant.  Willis’s personal assistant had found it difficult to persuade the restaurant owner to exclude meat from the _price fixe_.   It was comical, really.  The chef thought they were removing the meat to lower the price!  Paul had known that most of his dinner companions were not vegetarians, so insured that the best wines and liqueurs would be served to make up for this.  He just couldn’t morally condone paying for an expensive meal for over two-dozen people if that meal included meat.  In the end, however, everyone enjoyed the evening immensely.  It was the right time and the right place to celebrate.  After tomorrow night’s concert at River Plate Stadium, they would only have two more concerts left, both of them in Brazil, and then they would be winging home to England for a whole month off to celebrate the Christmas holidays and the New Year.   
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       The stadium was full to bursting with screaming Argentinians.  You could see pale blue and while flags and banners flying all over the place.  During the performance, much like the others they’d done in South America, there were no gay pride demonstrations during any of the songs.  John and Paul assumed it was because _A Friend of Dorothy_ and _You Want It Too_ were too idiosyncratic.  They sang them anyway, at some of the concerts, because _Dorothy_ had a good fun vibe, and the audience loved the interplay between John and Paul in _You Want It Too_ , even though it remained apparent that the audience was not “getting” either song.  Or maybe the society was so repressed that the gay audience members didn’t dare acknowledge appreciation of the songs.  It was hard for John and Paul to know, being largely ignorant of the culture.  
  
         The songs that really sold in Argentina in a big way were the same ones that had nearly brought the roof down at the Empire Theatre in Liverpool.  When the instantly recognizable organ refrain began at the front of _Strawberry Fields Forever_ , Paul was at the keyboard bathed in beautiful cerulean blue, and the audience went wild.   Another spotlight slowly came up, a vivid pink light, and John was its subject, and he began to sing:  
  
  


_Let me take you down_   
_Cause I'm going to_   
_Strawberry Fields_   
_Nothing is real_   
_And nothing to get hung about_   
_Strawberry Fields forever_

_Living is easy with eyes closed_   
_Misunderstanding all you see_   
_It's getting hard to be someone_   
_But it all works out_   
_It doesn't matter much to me_

_Let me take you down_   
_Cause I'm going to_   
_Strawberry Fields_   
_Nothing is real_   
_And nothing to get hung about_   
_Strawberry Fields forever_

_No one I think is in my tree_   
_I mean it must be high or low_   
_That is you can't, you know, tune in_   
_But it's all right_   
_That is I think it's not too bad_

_Let me take you down_   
_Cause I'm going to_   
_Strawberry Fields_   
_Nothing is real_   
_And nothing to get hung about_   
_Strawberry Fields forever_

_Always, no sometimes, think its me_   
_But you know I know when it's a dream_   
_I think I know I mean a yes_   
_But it's all wrong_   
_That is I think I disagree_

_Let me take you down_   
_Cause I'm going to_   
_Strawberry Fields_   
_Nothing is real_   
_And nothing to get hung about_   
_Strawberry Fields forever_   
_Strawberry Fields forever_   
_Strawberry Fields forever_

  
  
       Somehow the surreal lyrics to the song made it easier for the Argentinians to understand.  It didn’t really matter what the lyrics were, because the meaning was in the textured music, with the stentorian marches interrupting the lazy meanderings.  And the meaning was also in John’s half-dead, disinterested voice, which seemed to wander in on a radio wave from another planet.  
  
         As soon as the last whomps and groans disappeared from Wix’s synthesizer, he played the piccolo trumpet intro trill that Paul had added to the arrangement of the next song.  This one was Paul’s.  Whereas John’s _Strawberry Fields Forever_ was a song John had written in 1967 about his acid trips (finally!) with Paul, and how acid was now the new secret place they could meet, as Strawberry Fields had been during their teen years, Paul’s song was a paean to an idyllic English schoolboy’s childhood, filled with two line descriptions of characters that, in their brief surgical swipes, somehow captured the whole person.  John had always thought Paul must have been a bright-eyed, adorable, curious, and observant child, and for that reason he loved _Penny Lane_.  
  
         Before Paul could even begin to sing, the audience recognized the piccolo trill, and had started to sing the song.  Paul looked over at John and laughed.  “ _They made me miss my intro!_ ” He shouted, and pretended to be mortified for the audience’s benefit.  John laughed and shouted back, “ _Show’em who’s boss!_ ” The band had noticed that their singer wasn’t with them, and circled back and presented him with another intro cue.   This time Paul grabbed it and ran.  
  
  


_In Penny Lane there is a barber showing photographs_   
_Of every head he's had the pleasure to know_   
_And all the people that come and go_   
_Stop and say hello_

_On the corner is a banker with a motorcar_   
_The little children laugh at him behind his back_   
_And the banker never wears a mac in the pouring rain_   
_Very strange_

_Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes_   
_There beneath the blue suburban skies_   
_I sit and meanwhile back in_

_Penny Lane there is a fireman with an hourglass_   
_And in his pocket is a portrait of the Queen_   
_He likes to keep his fire engine clean_   
_It's a clean machine_

_Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes_   
_A four of fish and finger pies_   
_In summer meanwhile back_

_Behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout_   
_A pretty nurse is selling poppies from a tray_   
_And though she feels as if she's in a play_   
_She is anyway_

_Penny Lane, the barber shaves another customer_   
_We see the banker sitting waiting for a trim_   
_And the fireman rushes in from the pouring rain_   
_Very strange_

_Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes_   
_There beneath the blue suburban skies_   
_I sit and meanwhile back_

_Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes_   
_There beneath the blue suburban skies_   
_Penny Lane_

 

*****

  
  
  
       Their exotic side-trip in Argentina was a visit to Iguazu Falls.  They were flying into Puerto Iguazu, staying in a first class hotel, and then a tour guide was going to take them on a trip through the park.  As they ate an al fresco lunch on a table overlooking the falls, John said, “You know, I’m almost starting to get bored by unworldly, outrageous, natural beauty.”  Paul choked on his sandwich and laughed for a good long time over that.  
  
         “It’s a good thing then that our Brazil side trips don’t feature any lakes, plains, waterfalls, or mountain views,” Paul joked, after he had recovered.  
  
         That night they would be dining in the restaurant of their five-star hotel, which had a sumptuous view of the river valley.  Before they were seated, they sat at the bar chatting with the bartender when two men approached them.  They stood politely by until Paul noticed them.  
  
         “Oh, hello,” Paul said cheerfully.  
  
         “I’m sorry to interrupt,” one of the men said to him with a deep transatlantic drawl.  Both men were elegantly dressed and looked worldly.  “But I believe you are friends of some friends of ours.”  
  
         John turned around, curious now.  Paul said, “Oh?”  
  
         “You know Gerry and Jason from New York?”  
  
         John hooted.  “Do we ever!  You’re friends of theirs?”  
  
         “Yes, we go way back.  We just saw them on Martha’s Vineyard a few months ago, actually, and they were regaling us with select excerpts from some of your letters.”  This comment was directed at John, who was the letter writer between them.  
  
         “How are they?” Paul asked politely.  
  
         “Same as ever.  That’s the lovely thing about Gerry and Jason.  They never change,” the other man said.  
  
         “But somehow they never go out of style, either,” Paul mused, surprising the first man because Gerry had told him that Paul was the less subtle of the two minds.  Although Gerry _had_ been right about Paul’s physical attributes:  there was no denying that.  Especially up close his looks were remarkable.  
This man thought it was time he introduced himself.  
  
         “My name is Rob Sheridan, and this is my…” he paused for a moment, but then decided it had to be all right, since they were friends of Gerry and Jason.  “This is my _partner_ , Wes Carter.”  
  
         “Well I’m John,” John said with a silly grin and sporting a cheeky Texan accent, “and this here is my _pardner_ Paul.”  Paul winked and did a little wave with three of the fingers on his left hand.  
  
         Rob and Wes were charmed immediately.  “Well, anyway, we thought we’d introduce ourselves,” Wes said as they started to move away.  
  
         “No – please!  Dine with us!” Paul offered, as John was about to say the same thing.  “We could use some outside company, couldn’t we John?”  
  
         “Why yes, Paul, we could,” John said in a deliberately rehearsed-sounding voice.  
  
         The four men were escorted to a table for four with an incredible view of the now darkened landscaping, lit strategically by the hotel designers.  Rob insisted upon ordering and paying for the first bottle of wine, and the one he chose was exquisite.  
  
         “So how do you know Gerry and Jason?” John asked, as they finished their menu perusing, and clinked their glasses in _salut_.  
  
         “We lived for years in Manhattan, and we attended many of the At Homes,” Wes said.  “But we moved to Boston for Rob’s work about 15 years ago, and then we were reduced to seeing them once or twice a year for getaway weekends and trips.”  
  
         “What do you do?” Paul asked Rob.  
  
         “I’m an investment banker,” Rob said quietly.  “And Wes is – well, we like to say that Wes is a _bon vivant_.”  
  
         “What he means is, I light up his life,” Wes said with a bright smile.  
  
         They all laughed easily.  
  
         “I light up Paul’s life, but it’s mostly explosions,” John quipped.  While everyone laughed, Paul waited, and then,  
  
         “He’s not joking, unfortunately,” Paul deadpanned.  
  
         “What brings you to Argentina?” Rob asked them.  
  
         John and Paul looked at each other in amusement.  If they ever needed proof that they were not the center of the universe, this was it.  
  
         “We’re on a concert tour,” Paul said easily.  
  
         “In Argentina?” Wes asked, surprised.  “They listen to English rock music in Argentina?”  
  
         John and Paul laughed.  “Enough of ‘em to fill up a whole soccer stadium at least,” John said cheerfully.  “That’s all we need:  one soccer stadium full.”  
  
         “My goodness!  I had no idea!” Wes mused.  Rob looked at him fondly, and then shared a knowing smile with John and Paul.   Apparently Rob and Wes shared an elitist view of music, as did Gerry and Jason.  
  
         “So, this trip to the Iguazu is a break from your tour?” Rob asked.  
  
         “Yeah,” John said.  “We’ve been doing a very leisurely stroll through South America for the past three weeks.  We’re going to Brazil next, where we have two concerts, and then we’re going home to England for the holidays.”  
  
         Rob and Wes were quietly watching these two famous men.  Gerry and Jason had never _said_ the two men were lovers, but somehow that is the impression both Rob and Wes had come away with.  Now as they saw John and Paul’s casual but intimate interactions – nothing tacky or overtly demonstrative, of course, but telling just the same – Rob and Wes were sure.  _You never knew where you would find fellow closet dwellers in this world_ , Rob thought.


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for the next plot twist? Well, here it comes, ready or not...

       The night before, the four men had enjoyed their dinner together so much that Paul had invited Rob and Wes to share a late breakfast with them before John and Paul had to leave for the airport. In bed the night before, John and Paul had talked about how much they enjoyed the company of their new friends, and how Gerry and Jason together had the best taste in acquaintances of anyone they knew.  
  
         For their part, both Rob and Wes had each found himself enchanted by _one_ of their new friends.  While Wes had bonded most with John, Rob found himself most drawn to Paul.  He would have to shake his finger at Gerry the next time they met, because Paul wasn’t at all how Gerry had described him, except for the beautiful looks part, of course.  He and Paul had talked deep into the night about finance, and Paul had not only kept up, but in many cases knew far more than Rob did.  They discovered that they both were fans of reading about the natural world; Rob enjoyed hiking, climbing and camping, and Paul had done his share, although not in extreme environments like Rob did.  What’s more, Paul had what appeared to Rob to be a near photographic memory when he talked about finance and nature.  To know that he was also – according to the record books at least – the most successful songwriter in history was quite amazing to Rob.  To top that, Paul was utterly charming.  He was an attentive and encouraging listener, had a quick and ready wit, and was more than a match for the blustering John Lennon when it came to repartee.  While John went for the provocative or trenchant, Paul’s quips came in under the radar, far more observant and nuanced.  Rob knew a fine mind when he met one, and Paul most definitely had one.  He wondered what Gerry’s problem was.  
  
         Wes had noticed Rob’s intense interest in the dark, doe-eyed McCartney, and had felt strong thrums of jealousy.  Not too long ago in their decades-old relationship, Rob had engaged in a serious affair with a man a bit like Paul – dark, with a lovely speaking voice, and able to converse with Rob in depth on a myriad of serious subjects.  Wes had always felt intellectually insecure around Rob.  Wes sometimes feared that Rob was more amused by him than impressed.  Although Wes had graduated from Yale, he had been only the latest of the “legacies” in a line of Yalies going back to his great-grandfather’s generation.  Wes came from old Connecticut money.  The money was so “old”, Wes liked to joke, that it had “died and gone to heaven.”  In other words, there was nothing but a modest trust fund left for Wes by the time his father died.  Wes had skimmed his way to a Yale diploma, and then dabbled in several white-collar jobs in the advertising and banking businesses.  His family had been a banking family, so there were many entrees and connections.  
  
         It was while he was working in an investment bank back in his early 30’s, where he was doing deeply mediocre work, that he had first met Rob.  Rob was an honest-to-god, work-his-way-through Harvard graduate, who then had gotten a graduate degree in business and finance at the Wharton School of Business.  He was brilliant, socially adept, and attractive in a saturnine way.  He had risen through the investment banking ranks like a comet, and soon had built up a sizeable fortune of his own.  Wes had seen him around the finance circles at Manhattan seminars, and had been smitten immediately.  There was a magnetic energy to Rob that drew people to him.  There had only been a mere flicker in Rob’s eyes when they first met, but it was enough for Wes to get the message that Rob was also a homosexual and was willing to hook up.  
  
         That Wes was a homosexual was an open secret in his patrician family.  It didn’t disturb them much, so long as he was discreet and he did the right thing by marrying and producing an heir.  But as the years went by and Wes showed no signs of marrying much less producing an heir, the family had resigned itself to the fact that their branch of the family would stop with Wes.  
  
         Wes’s insecurity was based on his less than brilliant mind, and the fact that it sometimes seemed that Rob valued brilliant minds above all else.  But Wes had plenty of qualities, including all-American good looks, a witty warmth, awesome social skills, and charming repartee that had attracted and held Rob for over twenty years now, except for that little ten-month blip when Rob had left him for that other man:  the very same man that reminded him a bit of McCartney.  Perhaps Wes wouldn’t have been so worried about it if he himself were darkly handsome.  But no, Wes looked a great deal like the American actor Bill Holden – he had light hair and blue eyes, and not the dark looks that Rob seemed to be more naturally attracted to.  
  
         Still, Wes wasn’t worried about McCartney running off with Rob.  He doubted very much that Paul would want to stray from John Lennon.  _John Lennon_ , Wes thought dreamily.  Now _there_ was a man!  He was everything that Wes was, almost exactly, except that he was _more_ and _better_!  Wes wasn’t attracted to John sexually, he liked the lean, mean, athletic type like Rob, but he thought that John would be the best friend to pal around with ever, and he also thought that Paul would be stupid not to hold on tight to what he had, given their creative symbiosis.  
  
         When Rob and Wes got there, John and Paul had been in the shower together goofing around.  They had been major-league distracted by an odd looking nozzle, and by the time the doorbell rang, most of the bathroom was dripping with water.  The doorbell caused Paul to jump and realize that they had let the time get away from them.  He barreled out of the shower and threw on one of the hotel terry cloth bathrobes, and rushed to the door.  He didn’t realize the sight he presented to the two casually but elegantly dressed men standing at his door.  He was slick with wet, and his black hair was pulled back straight from his forehead.  His eyes looked a warm green against his pale skin and black hair.  He was barefoot.  
  
         “Oops!  Sorry mates!” He greeted them cheerfully.  “Lost track of the time.  That’s the danger of hanging out with musicians, by the way.”  He smiled brightly, and his adorable Macca grin lit up the air around him.  “Come on in and make yourself at home.  They’ve set the table on the terrace I think.  I’ll just go throw some clothes on.”  
  
         Rob was thinking to himself, _don’t cover yourself up on my account,_ and Wes couldn’t drag his eyes away from Paul’s disappearing figure.  Paul really knew how to move that ass.  Wes realized he was staring, and looked up suddenly to see Rob smiling knowingly at him.  “He’s quite the package, isn’t he?” Rob asked him lightly, and Wes laughed in agreement, relieved at Rob’s objective assessment.  
  
         They made themselves comfortable on the terrace, Rob picking up a newspaper, and Wes pouring them some coffee while looking down across the lawn.  “They certainly have the most spectacular room and view,” Wes said enviously.  “I’m guessing they’re loaded.”  
  
         “I have no idea,” Rob said seriously, still reviewing the financial pages that (he had noted) had already been opened, expertly folded in all the right places, and read, no doubt by that beguiling, baffling, elfin creature, Paul.  “I don’t think musicians are generally that wealthy, but they are, after all, Beatles, so possibly they are fairly wealthy.”  To Rob, if a person didn’t have at least $100 million in assets he didn’t register on the wealth chart.  None of his clients had less than that, and most of them had much more. He himself had a fortune valued at $200 million and he considered himself to be not very wealthy.  Rob was approaching age 60, although he was in fantastic shape, exercising long hours every day, and his black but silvering hair was wavy and abundant.  He had a long lean face with a distinctive masculine profile, and deep set grey eyes.  
  
         A moment later John came out, dressed in jeans and a bright blue pullover sweater, his hair still wet.  He was barefoot except for flip-flops.  He noted the dapper dress of his guests and he guffawed.  “Well, we can see who of the three of us came from Liverpool,” he said loudly and sarcastically.  
  
         John sat down and pretty soon the room service arrived with their trays and carts, having been let in by a freshly dressed Paul.  Paul had seen how the guests were dressed, and so had honored them by putting on some stylish form fitting straight leg, slim fit white slacks and a black pullover jersey, with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows.  He wore black espadrilles, as if he were on a yacht in the Mediterranean.  His still slightly damp black hair had been brushed back in a swoop off of his forehead, with the silver streaks showing at his temples and in a few strands, and his eyes were now like emeralds with glowing brown centers.  He looked _ravishing_.  Rob noticed that Paul sat down in his chair with casual, unconscious grace, crossing his slim legs from high up on his thigh in that elegant Continental way.  Usually only Continentals got away with it; Paul, from England, was certainly bucking the trend of his own country’s manners to choose _that_ physicality.  
  
         John was getting a weird vibe from Rob this morning.  He didn’t know why.  The man was elegant, polite, and very gracious.  He listened and laughed at all the right times, but he seemed so distant somehow.  Inaccessible.  What’s more, it was clear he preferred Paul’s company.  John got the sense that Rob thought he – John - was a bit gauche and maybe a bit of a poser.  And, to make matters worse, John had liked Wes much more the night before, but today Wes seemed a little distracted because he spent most of the breakfast encounter sending unreadable glances over to first Rob and then Paul.  John wanted the meal to be over, so that he and Paul could get on the plane and fly for their two-day trip in Rio de Janeiro.  They were relaxing there before leaving for Sao Paulo for their first concert in Brazil.  
  
         John looked over to Paul, to see if he could meet his eyes.  But he found he couldn’t meet Paul’s eyes.  Paul was deeply engaged in a conversation about “futures”, whatever the fuck they were, with Rob.  John stared at Rob for a few moments intensely, and then at Paul, and then at Rob.  _Fuck._ John knew that Paul did not identify as gay, and therefore wasn’t going to fall into another man’s bed.  But the idea that someone John was feeding in his own hotel suite was apparently flirting with his lover right in front of him was a bit shocking.  It was a first for John, who was used to being the most magnetic and fascinating person in the room.   Throughout the years, when it came to first impressions, most new acquaintances had liked John most.  It was only with the passage of time that Paul started to grow on people.  Jason had always said that while John was an insouciant beaujolais wine, Paul was a cabernet – he improved with age.  
  
         Thankfully, the meal did finally end, and Rob and Wes said their goodbyes.  Paul saw them off at the door, and then rejoined John in the living room, where John had flopped in relief and exhaustion after what was to him a trying one-hour experience.  “Thank god they’re gone!” John shouted to the ceiling, wiping his hands over his eyes.  
  
         Paul was surprised.  “I thought you liked them?” he asked, plopping down in the chair opposite, crossing his legs in that sexy as hell way that drove John crazy.  This distracted John momentarily.  
  
         “You look like a fucking ‘60s movie star on the Riviera in that getup,” John said, apropos of nothing.  
  
         Paul looked down at his attire with a worried look.  “I thought it was kind of smashing,” he said in a disappointed voice.  
  
         John chuckled and said, “Paul, if you wore a _burlap bag_ you would look ‘ _smashing’_.  How you look _now_ should be illegal.”  
  
         Paul made a face and leaned back in his chair.  “You didn’t answer my question.  I thought you liked them too.   You said so last night.”  
  
         “They had a different vibe this morning.  Something was off.  Didn’t you feel it?”  
  
         Paul was sincerely mystified.  “No, I didn’t feel it.  Of course, I spent most of the time talking to Rob.  Was Wes acting weird?”  
  
         “Hmmm, about that, I noted that Rob monopolized your attention,” John said carefully, as if it were an idle observation.  
  
         “ _’Monopolized?_ ’ Paul asked, amazed that John would even think to use that word.  “We have a lot of interests in common.  We were talking about the latest trends in short term investment strategies.”  
  
         “Sounds _fascinating_ ,” John drawled.  
  
         “Well, it kind of is, to me. Actually, _I_ think it is interesting because _one_ of us has to worry about our investments so we don’t get ripped off by yet _another_ manager.”  Paul had turned serious now, and John knew he had to lighten up.  
  
         He took a different tack.  “You know, Paul,” John said as casually as he could, “Wes appeared to be very jealous of the attention Rob paid to you.”  
  
         “ _Jealous_?” Paul was looking at John as if he had suddenly started speaking Klingon.  He noted that he was repeating a lot of John’s words in a disbelieving tone, but he couldn’t help it.  
  
         “Well, he seemed to be quite worried about it,” John said, his hands held out to his sides to reflect how reasonable he was being.  
  
         “I have no control over how Wes reacts,” Paul said with an ill-disguised pouty frown.  He crossed his arms, and as he did so his legs - already crossed - seemed to get even tighter.  John had always loved this about Paul:  the poor boy had no idea that his body language was screaming _fuck me fuck me fuck me!_ to any man or woman in sight.  “I hope you’re not saying that _you_ are jealous!”  Paul grumped, his face adorably stormy as he directed this question to John.  
  
         “Paul, I don’t expect you to go running off with a bloke.  If Rob were a _woman_ , on the other hand, I’d be lining up the anti-aircraft guns even as we speak.”   Paul relaxed and laughed along with John.  “But I’m suggesting that if we ever run into Rob and Wes again, which is highly unlikely, that you spend a bit more time talking to Wes, and a bit less time talking to Rob, so as not to create problems between the two of them.”  
  
         Paul looked uneasy.  
  
         “What?”  John asked, seeing the expression.  
  
         “I offered Rob and Wes two VIP tickets to the Sao Paulo concert, and they accepted.  Rob offered to take us out to dinner the night before.”  
  
         John was speechless.  _Should_ he be worried?  Paul didn’t offer VIP tickets to just _anybody._ In fact, he was considered to be miserly with VIP tickets, because he had always felt that they should allow the fans to purchase as many of those coveted seats as possible.  
  
         “I wish you would have asked me first,” John said as calmly as he could.  
  
         “But we talked about it last night.  I thought you liked them too,” Paul defended himself.  
  
         “So, we have to spend another dinner with them, and meet them after the show.  One more night.”  John didn’t know why this was bothering him so much, so he decided not to make a drama out of it.  “Promise me you won’t make any more dates with them without consulting me, first.”  
  
         “Of course!” Paul said.  Now that he knew that John’s views on the couple had changed, he naturally would not extend further invitations.  But he was quite disappointed.  He had very much enjoyed Rob’s company.  The man was so erudite, smart, and literate.  He didn’t treat Paul as if he were an idiot, like all the rock critics and intellectuals did.  Rob seemed to understand and appreciate that Paul was always wanting to learn and improve, and didn’t patronize him at all.  Still, if John didn’t want them around, Paul was cool with that.  The world was filled with interesting people, after all.  
  
  


*****

  
  
    
         Their flight landed in Rio de Janeiro at 3 p.m., and they quickly decamped to their hotel, the Copacabana Palace, and their penthouse suite.  The spectacular view over the harbor again drew them out on to their terrace.  Paul sat on the marble terrace wall that looked down from the top of that palatial building, still wearing his white pants, his black top, and his black espadrilles.  It was now after 4 p.m., and the photographs John took showed Paul to his absolute advantage.  John thought to himself that he was the lucky man who got to strip those white pants off Paul, and fuck him up his ass until he was crying for mercy.  He was looking forward, now that he thought of it, to doing that tonight.  
  
         But first, they were alive and in their forties and loose on the boulevards of Rio de Janeiro.  What could be better?  They ate at an outré restaurant in the Lapa district, and then went from one nightclub to the other with the local bon vivant that their travel agent had set them up with.  It was a thoroughly enjoyable night, and they staggered home, lit up but not stumbling drunk, and piled into the bed amongst giggles and groans, and John had the enviable honor of assisting Paul in shedding those fuck-me slacks.  It was a very satisfying way to end the night, if John did say so himself.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      The next day they visited the stores in the Lapa.  While there, John went to a textiles factory.  Paul had already been “textiled” to within an inch of his life, so he begged off.  He used the time to go visit a jeweler in Rio who was well known for his antique pieces.  He went there to find something special for John.  He didn’t know where this obsession came from, but it filled him with excitement and enthusiasm, and he believed that when John opened up his antique silver jewelry box and found all the precious pieces inside that John would know – finally – how thoroughly and deeply Paul loved him.  
  
         He browsed for a fairly long time, and finally settled on a man’s necklace made of silver, with green jasper stone beads and a stone pendulum, and a ring with prasiolite as it’s center stone, with Masasi blue garnet side stones.  It was exquisite, and he thought John would be thrilled with it.  Paul, himself, wasn’t a fan of jewelry for himself, but he had noted that John was a bit vain about his body and loved jewelry, and so he would appreciate priceless trinkets that were there to decorate some of his most attractive body parts.  Having made this purchase, Paul had completed his Christmas gift search, and, as he arranged for the valuable pieces to be sent home to England he hoped that this odd idea of his would mean as much to John as he hoped it would.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      Their plane landed in Sao Paulo in the early afternoon.  The concert was scheduled for the next day, so they had plenty of time to wile away before hitting the concert stage at 6:00 p.m. tomorrow for sound check.  Their hotel was a classic European edifice called the Hotel Sao Paulo Inn.   The city was far more businesslike and overbuilt than the other cities they’d seen in South America.  This was obviously a city devoted primarily to business and not art.  But still, it was the most populous city in Brazil, and the soccer stadium had sold out in a record-breaking period of time.  
  
         But before they could prepare for their performance, they had to honor their commitment to have dinner with Rob and Wes, who had apparently changed their own plans to meet them in Sao Paulo.  Turns out they had reserved rooms a few floors down from John and Paul’s in the same hotel.  Paul could feel John’s animosity as they dressed for dinner, but thankfully John did not say anything about it to him.  
  
         It was agreed that Rob and Wes would meet them in John and Paul’s penthouse suite at 7:30 p.m. for some pre-dinner drinks, and from there Rob had made the plans for dinner and clubbing.  He had hired a first class Sao Paulo limousine driver who knew the clubs of the city, and felt that he had lined up a very intriguing night for John and Paul.  
  
         “Rob!  Wes!” John greeted the two men with a fraudulent enthusiasm as they presented themselves at the penthouse door.  All John wanted was for this night to be over.  He was doing air kisses with Wes, and John felt that this was as phony as it got.  When he looked over to where Paul was, however, he noticed – to his relief - that Paul was giving Rob a firm but strictly friendly handshake.  
  
         The dinner was nice enough, in a very flamboyant Brazilian environment.  Palm fronds were arching over their table, and men with poufy long sleeves were serving them their meal.  Meanwhile, women in skimpy outfits and huge headdresses were periodically parading by.   John had made sure to sit across from Rob, leaving Paul to interact primarily with Wes.  John liked this arrangement much better.  While Paul went about the business of charming the pants off Wes, John dug in and took on Rob.  
  
         Rob asked John if he followed the financial indicators.  John looked at him as if Rob were speaking another language.  “The coinciding indicator is looking good right now, don’t you think?”  Rob was not surprised when John gave him a completely blank look.  
  
         But John was not so easily intimidated.  “So, knowing about this economic indicator thingie means you’re smarter than me?  Is that what you’re saying?”  John’s malicious eyes were boring into Rob’s less emotional, unreadable eyes.  
  
         Rob smiled easily.  “No, of course not.  Excuse me for my crass tendency to talk about finance.  This is certainly not the time or place, is it?  I’m afraid I’m a one trick pony.  I don’t know very much about anything else.”  He smiled – charmingly and apologetically.  
  
         John somehow felt that he been bested in the exchange, but he didn’t know why.  
  
         The first club they went to was pretty pro forma for Brazil, circa 1988.  Clearly cocaine was circulating around the club, and plumed women were strutting around in suggestive poses while bored socialites smoked and drank and tried to outdo each other with repartee.  John was over it in 5 minutes, and Paul would have been too if Rob had not insinuated himself next to Paul.  Rob had leaned in and in _sotte voce_ explained the cultural references in all of the stage antics.  Rob was educated and articulate, and his observations were amusing without being insulting to the targets, and this approach was perfect for Paul, who had a kind heart and didn’t like to see others be made the butt of the joke.  
  
         The second club was – perhaps not surprisingly – a gay club.  But it was a gay club on steroids.  When John first glimpsed the activities on the stage (and the numerous erect penises) he perked right up.  _Now you’re talking!_   Paul, however, was immediately uncomfortable.  He didn’t mind going to such clubs alone with John, when the lights were dim and they were cloaked behind disguises, but to walk in to one of these clubs without disguise or warning was not okay.  He turned to Rob to express his concern.  
  
         “We can’t be seen here,” he whispered into Rob’s ear.  
  
         “Oh?” Rob asked.  “No one seems to recognize you.”  
  
         “They never do.  And then you see your picture on the front page of a newspaper the next day,” Paul whispered.  
  
         “John doesn’t seem to be concerned.”  
  
         Paul sighed.  “He never is concerned.  That’s _my_ job.”      
  
         Rob actually felt for Paul in that moment but was polite enough not to comment.  Instead, he nodded and gestured to Wes that it was time to leave.  John looked around in frustration, but when he saw Paul’s warning expression he allowed his own expression to become vague, and they all filed out of the club.  
  
         “I’ve heard there is a wonderful whiskey and smoke club not far from here that is very discreet,” Rob said. The four men proceeded to that club, and Paul remembered his promise to John that he would focus on Wes more.  So he went out of his way to sit near Wes, and leaned in to engage him in conversation.  Wes was surprised by this, and flattered.  Paul then turned on the charm, and Wes was a goner.  John went to work on Rob.  He asked if Rob liked literature, movies or plays.  Rob apparently wasn’t particularly well versed on such subjects, and John felt he had made his point.  Maybe John didn’t know much about finance, but Rob didn’t know much about culture.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      The concert in Sao Paulo’s Marumbi Stadium was just about to start.  To John’s annoyance, Rob and Wes had been around for sound check and had made themselves at home backstage before the show. For two men who were classical music and opera fans and had been surprised to find out that rock music was popular in South America, they had suddenly become part of the cognoscenti backstage.  Paul did not, for some infuriating reason, see the hypocrisy in this.  He had tried to explain to John that people had to be exposed to new music to decide whether they really liked it or not.   Meanwhile, Rob seemed to be quite interested in Paul’s welfare.  He got him some water at one point, and another time John spied him adjusting the back collar of Paul’s coat.  At one point John was next to Wes, who looked as miserable and bored as John looked miserable and pissed.  John said in a dry and sarcastic tone, “Your partner seems to be overly concerned with Paul’s welfare.”  
  
         Wes looked at John and what he saw was an unlikely ally.  “Rob left me – about 5 years ago, for several months – for a man very like Paul.”  
  
         John was transfixed by Wes’s comment.  “And you took him back?”  
  
         Wes sighed and looked very sad.  “Yes, I took him back.  I love him that much, and I’m that pathetic.”  
  
         John digested what Wes had to say, and finally said, “I actually trust Paul, because he identifies as straight.  I am his only male lover, and it has been a major struggle for him just being _my_ lover.  But I feel bad for _you_.  Have you thought about leaving Rob, since he is not the faithful type?”  
  
         Wes laughed.  “Gay life isn’t like that.  The thing about men, generally, is that we are not naturally faithful.  The genes tell straight men to go out and propagate.  The idea is that sex with more than one woman is a good bet, because you’re more likely to procreate that way.  Well, gay men have the same approach to sex, leaving out the childbearing part.  I could leave Rob for his infidelity, but then what?  I would be faced with being alone, or I’d find a lesser man who also wants to cat around.  It makes no sense to fight these infatuations; much better to wait them out.”  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      The crowd in Sao Paulo was fantastic.  It was loud, ready to party, but also – somehow - respectful.  It was the kind of audience that Paul loved most.  John and Paul knew that Rob and Wes were sitting in Row 9, directly in front of the stage, although they managed to forget this once the show was started.  They did their usual kickass intro, and had moved two-thirds of their way through the concert when they chose to forego _Strawberry Fields Forever_ and _Penny Lane_ for two other songs.  
  
         Usually, when John and Paul sang the next song, John was the one who took lead.  But that night Paul had explained that he felt like singing lead, and John acquiesced.  So it was Paul, sitting at the piano and projecting into the microphone, and singing:  
  
  


_Oh! Darling, please believe me_   
_I'll never do you no harm_   
_Believe me when I tell you_   
_I'll never do you no harm_

_Oh! Darling, if you leave me_   
_I'll never make it alone_   
_Believe me when I beg you_   
_Don't ever leave me alone_

_When you told me_   
_You didn't need me anymore_   
_Well you know I nearly broke down and cried_   
_When you told me_   
_You didn't need me anymore_   
_Well you know I nearly broke down and died_   
_Oh! Darling, if you leave me_   
_I'll never make it alone_   
_Believe me when I tell you_   
_I'll never do you no harm_

_Believe me darling_

_When you told me_   
_You didn't need me anymore_   
_Well you know I nearly broke down and cried_   
_When you told me_   
_You didn't need me anymore_   
_Well you know I nearly broke down and died_

_Oh! Darling, please believe me_   
_I'll never let you down_   
_(Oh, believe me darling)_   
_Believe me when I tell you_   
_I'll never do you no harm_

  
  
  
      The passion and despair in Paul’s voice was unmistakable.  After Paul finished this song, John prepared to lead on the next song.  Robbie went directly into a strong lead guitar riff, and the intro to _I’m Losing You_ began.  John had written this song in 1980 when he was still living in the Dakota with Yoko, but the song hadn’t been about the time he had split with Yoko.  It was, instead, about when he had first been estranged from Paul, and had spent his long, endless, depressing, scary days with Yoko getting high on heroin, because he was so disoriented about losing Paul.  
  
  


_Here in some stranger's room_   
_Late in the afternoon_   
_What am I doing here at all?_   
_There ain't no doubt about it_   
_I'm losing you, I'm losing you_

_Somehow the wires have crossed_   
_Communications lost_   
_Can't even get you on the telephone_   
_Don't wanna talk about it_   
_I'm losing you, I'm losing you_

_Here in the valley of indecision_   
_I don't know what to do_   
_I feel you slipping away_   
_I feel you slipping away_

_I'm losing you, I'm losing you_

_You say you're not getting enough_   
_I remind you of all that bad stuff_   
_Well, tell me: what am I supposed to do?_   
_I just put a band-aid on it_   
_And stop the bleeding now_   
_And stop the bleeding now_

_I know I hurt you then_   
_But it was way back when_   
_And do you still have to carry that cross?_   
_Drop it!_   
_Don't wanna hear about it!_   
_I'm losing you, I'm losing you_   
_I'm losing you, I'm losing you_   
_I'm losing you, I'm losing you_

  
      As the lead guitar strains waned, and the song came to an end the audience broke into unrestrained approbation.  
  
         In their 9th row seats, Rob and Wes had sat through their first rock music concert.  Both of them were surprised – surprised at how much they had enjoyed it, and how talented their new friends John and Paul were.  But Rob had focused almost exclusively on Paul.  To Rob, the man had an angelic, melodic voice.  He was magical and charismatic on stage.  To Rob’s eye, John needn’t have been on the stage at all.   Paul was the north, the south, the east and the west of this concert.  Paul was an angel.  He was smart, talented, wealthy, savvy, charming, adorable, incredibly sexy, physically beautiful, and that unmatchable face!  Yes, Rob was going to have to do some research on this enchanting Paul McCartney.  If all the answers worked out right, Rob thought he knew he had a very exciting challenge ahead.  And Rob was not accustomed to losing challenges.


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Honeymoon's Over. What will happen next?
> 
> John and Paul leave South America behind them, and confront the realities of London...

         Before moving on to their last concert in Brasilia, John and Paul headed for the last of their side adventures in South America.  Their travel agent had sent them south from Rio via private plane to a little coastal town called Paraty.  It was exactly like what you would imagine a little South American coastal town would be like – picture perfect.  Picture perfect little coves with white sand and palm trees; picture perfect little harbor where small fishing boats languished; picture perfect little cobblestone streets lined by picture perfect white stucco homes and businesses with fanciful balconies and brightly colored painted doors and windows; and a picture perfect nightlife, with outdoor cafes featuring soft lights and great local-grown vegetables and fruits, and locally caught seafood.  John and Paul felt that they had accidentally walked into a tourist brochure, and in doing so, the rest of the ugly world instantly vanished.  
  
         The only sightseeing they did was to stroll along the little streets, poking in to shops, visiting the church and walking along the jetty to enjoy the gaily-painted tourist boats.  One afternoon they went up on to the hillside and were immediately surrounded by jungle, and their guide took them to a hidden pool underneath a waterfall.  It wasn’t all that hidden, it just _seemed_ hidden because it was cloaked on all sides by jungle.  There were a few other people there, and someone had constructed a rope swing so you could take a running jump from the hillside and land in the pool, which both Paul and John repeatedly tried, of course.  It was a tiny little paradise.  
  
         In the late morning of their first full day in Paraty, as they sat in a tiny café waiting for their breakfast, John decided to raise a tricky topic.  Paul seemed to be in a calm and relaxed mood.  
  
         “This is going to sound like a stupid question,” John said, stirring a great chuck of natural brown sugar into this wonderfully rich coffee.  
  
         “Those are the only kind I can hope to answer,” Paul said and made a ‘ _ta-dum_ ’ sound while feigning a few bangs on a drum.  
  
         John smiled, but he was praying he wasn’t opening a can of worms.  “Have you ever been attracted to a man sexually – other than me?”  
  
         This certainly got Paul’s attention.  His face reflected his concern that no matter what he said he might get in trouble.  Paul didn’t know where John was going with this, and he doubted it was an idle question.  “Why do you ask?” he responded, hoping to get some kind of clue so that he could phrase his answer in a way that wouldn’t get him in trouble.        
  
         “Can you just answer the question honestly?”  John was sincere in his request.  
  
         “No, I haven’t.”  Paul felt that this was by far the safest answer, and he more or less believed it to be the truest answer too.  Of course, there were times when he…but never mind.  
  
         “I wondered about those blokes you hung out with – when you had that art gallery.  You know, Barry Miles, his crowd.  I was very jealous of them at the time.”  John was now swirling his coffee unnecessarily with his spoon.  
  
         “I told you this, John.  Barry and his friends were my friends.  We had similar interests; we hung out together.  No big mystery.”  Paul was trying to catch John’s eye, but John was too busy stirring the life out of his coffee at the moment.  
  
         “I heard that Peter Asher is gay,” John said carefully, still looking down.  John laughed.  “In the ‘70s there was this rumor that you and Peter were the item, and Jane was the beard.”  
  
         Paul put his coffee down and stared at John in perplexed annoyance.  “ _What_?  That’s _absurd_!”  
  
         John finally looked up and met his eyes.  “What’s absurd – that Peter is gay, or that you and he had a thing?”  
  
         “I have no idea if Peter is gay, although I never saw any sign of it, but we most certainly did not have a ‘thing’.  John, you know Jane and I had sex.  You interrupted us more than once, if I remember correctly!”  
  
         John couldn’t help chuckling at that as he remembered his various methods of screwing up Jane’s life back in the day.  He then paused, and picked up his coffee finally, and then sipped it in an absent-minded way.  “There was Tara Browne…”  
  
         “We’ve been over this before, haven’t we?  At _least_ once. My answer’s the same.  Tara had a girlfriend, and as far as I know, he was straight.  I know he hung around with a lot of gay guys, but they were in our circle – I hung around with them too.   Is this ‘gay by association’ we’re playing?  And before you ask again – for, what, the fourth or fifth time - no, I didn’t have an affair with Robert Fraser.”  Paul stopped for a moment as he had a sad, stray thought.  “By the way, he died of AIDS a few years ago, did you know?”  
  
         “No, I didn’t know,” John said with surprise.  “I’m sorry to hear that.  How did you find out?”  
  
         “Not long before he died he called me up out of the blue – I was in Sussex at the time – and Linda and I made a trip up to London to see him.  He had lesions all over his face, and he explained kaposi’s sarcoma to us.  He had his vices, but Robert was always very kind to me.  Anyway, a year or so later, I received a letter from his estate.  He had left me some art in his will.”  
  
         “You never said.”  John was stunned.  
  
         “I didn’t mention it, because I didn’t want to reopen this subject again.  You seem so threatened by Robert for some reason.”  Paul had that dog-with-a-bone look in his eyes as he stared at John.  “John, why are you bringing this subject up again at this particular time?”  
  
         John could see that Paul wasn’t going to be fobbed off.  
“I sometimes wonder if you would prefer it if I were stronger, and more self-assured.  I wonder if you’d prefer someone more stable and protective.”  
  
         Paul thought he knew where John was going with this now.  “You mean like our new friend Rob?”  
  
         Paul had hit the nail on the head.  “Yeah, like him.  He’s smart about things that you’re smart about, and he – I saw how he treated you – like you were someone to be cared for.  He treats you kind of like the way you treat me.  Do you ever wish I could be more like that?”  
  
         Paul didn’t speak for a moment.  He dared not show his emotions.  Yes, of course at times he wished John were more stable, less unpredictable, more rational, and less histrionic.  But no one person could ever be everything you needed and wanted all the time.  John ticked _almost_ all the boxes, and that was what Paul preferred to focus on.  “John, I love you the way you are,” Paul said softly, allowing warmth to show on his face.  “Yes, you drive me up the wall sometimes, but then I do the same to you.  In the end, I’d rather be with you than anybody.”  
  
         John heard the words and was pleasantly surprised that Paul had not tacked on the words “other than Linda”.  In fact, he hadn’t ranked Linda at all in this comment.  But, after he thought about it for a while, John decided that Paul was answering the question literally – in other words, that Paul didn’t believe he could find a _man_ he loved more than John.  
  
         “Well, men came on to you all the time, at least they did in the ‘50s and ‘60s.  Weren’t you ever _interested_?”  The heavy part of the conversation had now been dispensed with.  This next part was just John’s naughty curiosity rising to the top.  
  
         “Men did _not_ come on to me all the time.  I don’t remember men coming on to me.”  
  
         “There were the sailors in the Reeperbahn,” John pointed out, wiggling his eyebrows.  
  
         “They were drunk, and they thought I was a prossie because I was leaning against a club wall on the Reeperbahn smoking in the middle of the bleeding night.”  
  
         “They didn’t come on to _me,_ ” John pointed out.  
  
         “They were _scared_ of you.  No one’s scared of _my_ looks.  They only just want to pinch my cheek.”  Paul made an exasperated face to show John how much he didn’t like being “cute”.  
  
         John laughed.  “I know.  You poor sod.  Your personality could not be more different than your looks.  It’s like false packaging, almost.”  John laughed even harder at his comment, and Paul made his infamous duck face.  
  
         “ _You_ can laugh, John,” Paul said, his voice laden with fake resentment.  “No one asks _you_ if you pluck your fucking eyebrows.”  
  
         The two men were still chuckling when the waiter brought them their breakfast, and soon they were tucking in with gusto.   Their conversation veered off on to other topics, and the thorny subject slipped to the back of John’s mind.  He was now reassured that Paul didn’t long for a strong, silent type male lover.  This had never occurred to John as a possibility until he had seen the way Rob had managed to pull Paul in so close and so fast.  But John was content with Paul’s response, especially since they never had to see Rob again.   
  
  


*****

  
       Brasilia was even more of a businesslike city than Sao Paulo.  It was almost completely modern; actually, _futuristic_ was a better word for much of the architecture.  And even though it was jarring to John and Paul after having been steeped in classic Euro-South American architecture for a month, the city had a faster beat to it, and so it was a good way to get ready for the faster pace they would soon be returning to in England.  The nightlife was a bit of all right, too, they found out on their first night in the city.  
  
         The concert was to be held in another soccer stadium, and by then the engineers and crew had become world experts in putting together a stage set in soccer stadiums.  The sound in the stadium was perfect, similar to the sound in Madrid.  Both cities sat on a flat plateau with a vast horizon spread out around them by 360 degrees.   Paul wandered on stage to say hello to the musicians.  They spoke idly about how they were looking forward to going home.  Strangely, the idea of going home left Paul feeling oddly unsettled.  He wasn’t looking forward to it nearly as much as he would have thought.  He did of course miss Linda and his children, but he found living with John alone was a lot easier on his nerves and emotions.  He supposed he’d feel the same way if he’d just spent three months primarily in Linda’s company, and had to go back to share equally with John again.  Still, Paul had never _ever_ felt ambivalent about being with Linda and the children before.  Not even for a second.  As he usually did when something was bothering him that he couldn’t resolve, he pushed it out of his mind and re-focused on his work.  
  
         John, meanwhile, was lingering back stage chatting with Evan and a few assistants and roadies.  He was doing his best to delay having to join sound check.  It seemed a bit silly to him that he had to participate, since Paul, the band, and the sound engineers had a much better handle on everything than he did.  He heard Paul calling him via the microphone, so he sighed and walked (infuriatingly slowly from Paul’s point of view) on to the stage and blinked at the sudden bright light.  Grumpily, he picked up his favorite acoustic guitar and headed for the mic.  He and Paul enjoyed doing an Everly Brothers medley before breaking into some old rock standards with the electric instruments.  _Wake Up Little Susie,_ _Words of Love_ and _Let It Be Me_ flowed out over the huge empty stadium, but John and Paul were singing to each other.  They had many memories wrapped up in those songs.  For one, John remembered how they’d been banned from the Cavern for quite some time after convincing Alan Synter, the owner (who was running a jazz only club), that _Wake Up Little Susie_ was a jazz song, only to be booed off the stage by outraged jazz fans when they actually tried to perform the song.  John smiled with the memory of it.  He and Paul could talk birds out of trees, girls out of panties, club owners out of gigs, and bartenders out of drinks when they worked together in tandem.  No one could fend them off for long when they each poured on the charm simultaneously.  
  
         After sound check, everyone relaxed back stage.  The band had already eaten, but John and Paul ate a light snack consisting of fruit and bread, and since the tour was heading back home, everyone was in an expansive mood.  Somehow the musicians, the roadies, the management team, and even some of the senior crew members were lolling about on folding chairs in a kind of uneven circle backstage with John and Paul, exchanging tour anecdotes and bloopers and making each other laugh.  John and Paul, especially, were on their game that evening, and by doing their usual shtick (where John was the clown, and Paul was the straight man, but a straight man wise to the joke), the laughter at times reached near-hysteria levels.  It wasn’t often that John and Paul sat down socially with the backstage crew and management team, so the experience was much appreciated by all.  The musicians, of course, had much more alone time with John and Paul, and had already come to their own conclusions about the two stars.  
  
         The musicians found Paul scary talented as a musician.  He wasn’t as good a guitarist as Robbie, but he was better than a number of good session musicians they’d worked with.  He wasn’t as good a drummer or pianist as a professional session musician, but for a front line performer he was pretty damn good.  And his bass playing was matchless.  There was an indefinable something to it.  It was no longer easy for average people to hear the difference between Paul and other bassists, because after Paul McCartney hit the world in the early ‘60s, all rock bassists everywhere went about stealing his tricks and copying his sound, so they had all started to sound like him a bit.  But still, at least to a professional musician’s ear – for someone who just picked up a bass and tried out a bass line for a brand new song – he was peerless amongst rock bassists.  It was as if he played the electric bass in a similar way to how the best jazz musicians played the upright bass, but accomplished so many more subtle sounds than that.  Paul’s vocals also showed great virtuosity and variety, and the instrument actually sang as a result.  John Lennon had once bragged to the band when Paul wasn’t around that the instrument hadn’t been invented that Paul couldn’t pick up and figure out within minutes.  “It would take him 2 minutes to figure out what goes where and what end is up.  It would take him 10 minutes to figure out how to carry a tune on it.  But if you want perfection, you’ll have to wait at least twenty minutes,” he had joked.  
  
         As a personality, they all found Paul a little intimidating, because he was so clearly in charge.  He loved music, and playing with music, so he allowed a lot of innovation and experimentation at the rehearsal stage and even sound check, but once he’d decided upon an arrangement, that is what he expected to hear out of them every single night in concert.  He didn’t like surprises. “This isn’t improv,” he had said succinctly and firmly to the drummer once, when the poor lad had the idea of trying something new in the middle of a concert.  Paul was open to suggestions and ideas, but once he made up his mind – that was it.  But he was also a solid and stable personality.  He may sometimes seem a little emotionally withdrawn, but it was all within predictable parameters.   He didn’t suddenly explode over something that hadn’t bothered him the day before, for example.  And he didn’t hold mistakes against the musicians, so long as they didn’t _repeat_ the mistakes.  Most importantly to the musicians, however, was once you were “in” with him, you were “in” pretty much for good, in the sense that he would have a lot more loyalty to a good musician who was tried and true than most rock stars would.  And that meant he was willing to pay a musician what he was worth, once he had proved himself to Paul.  Paul would also forgive certain slights or errors once you were “in” that he might not forgive of someone else.  
  
         Then there was John.  As a musician he was only fair.  He was an enthusiastic rhythm guitarist, but much of the time, in preparing for the tour, the musicians had to come up with ever-more tactful ways to talk John out of trying more difficult instruments or more intricate arrangements than he could actually play.  When all else failed, they quietly found ways to drown out with their playing the perceived amateurish sounds coming out of John’s instruments.  But, when he and Paul were singing harmony with acoustic guitars, there was nothing wanting there.  The main thing at times like those was to be as unobtrusive as possible and let the two of them shine.  John’s guitar playing got much better when he was mirroring what Paul was doing, oddly enough.  
  
         As a personality to work for, John was a little bit too exciting.  If you only had to meet him once, you were either going to meet the coolest, greatest guy you ever met, or the nastiest most obnoxious person you ever met.  As distressful as that may be to the person who met the obnoxious John Lennon, it was nothing compared to what the musicians put up with.  One day John would be jolly and irreverent, and act like he was “one of them”, joking about being bossed around by Paul by repeatedly muttering “yes dear” in the musicians’ hearing, and making them swallow giggles.  But the next moment he would be screaming about somebody’s incompetence and how they should be fired!  It could be anyone and triggered by anything – a poor hapless crewmember standing in the wrong spot; an electrician who hadn’t placed the cables just where John wanted them; a musician who came in too late… Worse, a few words of insult would never be enough for John to adequately express his immense displeasure.  No, the poor victim would have to be thoroughly humiliated by a devastatingly sarcastic John Lennon in front of a stadium full of crewmembers and hangers on.  Thankfully, Paul would always instantly materialize out of nowhere when he heard John’s voice raise in anger like that.  
  
         “What’s up?” he would ask John, his voice trying for light and unconcerned, but clearly masking an underlying anxiety.  
  
         John would then rant and rave about the incompetent asshole who had just done this, that or the other thing, and Paul would stand right in front of John holding John still by the shoulders, watching John’s eyes carefully, and nodding his head throughout as if in complete and serious agreement, no matter how ludicrous or unreasonable John’s position might be.  Paul would then say, “Too right, John.  Let me take care of it.”         Satisfied that he had gotten the miscreant in trouble, John would then happily turn away and lose interest, his mood restored, and Paul would quietly go over to the wounded person and say quietly with a rueful smile, “How are you holding up?”  He’d then quietly give the person accurate directions, pat him on his back, and send him on his way.  
  
         But it was John and Paul together as a single entity that had totally captured the hearts of the musicians.  Whatever their individual faults and crochets might be, when John and Paul were together and everything was humming along they were magic.  Pure magic.  They made a person smile.  They made a person’s brain buzz with pleasure and excitement.  It was almost as if they were a mood-altering drug.  And the way they “spoke” musically together, in perfect wordless sync and harmony, had awed the musicians.  None of them had ever completely merged their musicianship with another person’s – at least not like John and Paul had done.  Together, even at their worst, John and Paul were exhilarating to be around.  At their best, they provided matchless entertainment and inspiration.  
  
         John and Paul, of course, were not entirely ignorant of their joint charisma.  They each had charisma and they each knew this about himself, and had used that charisma and sex appeal, too, to make friends and influence people for decades.  They each were also aware of the other one’s charisma.  In fact, they were each _enamored_ of the other one’s charisma. It therefore stood to reason that two such charismatic people together would end up being charisma “to infinity”.  They both knew the effect they had on others – well, they knew to a point.  Neither of them fathomed how deep that effect went, and in later years when it would finally dawn on them the extent of that effect, they would be astounded by it.  
  
         The fun gab session petered out after John and Paul excused themselves to go to their dressing room to get ready.  Neither of them had yet spoken about the fact that they would be getting on a private jet that night, after the concert, and heading back to England, with a brief stop in New York for refueling.  It was a subject neither of them wanted to bring up, because there were so many feelings mixed up in it.  They both were already feeling disconnected and disoriented, and they hadn’t even stepped foot on the plane yet.  The past month had been too amazingly romantic and idyllic for them to face its end.   
  
  


*****

  
  
       They were coming to the last third of the concert, and after the last strains of _I’m Losing You_ played out, Paul stepped up with his iconic Hofner bass, swinging it around while he leaned on one leg and began the thumping intro to _Get Back_.      
Of course, the audience loved this number no matter where they went, and the roar of approval echoed around them while they played out a newer, kinder version of the rooftop concert circa 1969.  Sometimes when they played this song, John remembered how he and Paul had a huge fight just before going up on the roof.  The fight had come with slamming doors, which sent Apple scruffs heading for corners like so many cockroaches ( _which, come to think of it…_ ) Paul had taken that moment to inform John that Linda was pregnant, and he was going to marry her.  John winced even as he stood there in late 1988 strumming his guitar for all he was worth.  The memory hurt, even now.   Up until that moment, John had thought Paul’s choice of shacking up with the American bird was an ill-advised plan, doomed to failure, and that soon he would come crawling back to John.  All that needed to happen was for Paul to get over his fear of living a queer life (albeit hidden by a series of beautiful girlfriends).  But upon hearing Paul’s news of the pregnancy, John knew it was all over – at least for a very long time.  John knew that Paul treasured children, and if the bitch actually delivered of the child, extricating Paul from that relationship would become nigh on impossible.  And how right had John been with his instinctive outraged and injured reaction?  
  
         John liked the next song better.  When he had written it he and Paul had not yet rekindled their relationship.  It had been the fall of 1980, and he was recording _Double Fantasy_.  But almost as if he had read the future, he had written the song to and about Paul, while camouflaging it sufficiently so that it could also be about Yoko.  The dead giveaways were all of his references to Paul’s song titles, lyrics, and band name that were littered choc-a-bloc all the way through the song.  Wix played the three bells, and John launched into his best Elvis imitation, while Paul and the band sang “ahhhhs” in the background:  
  
  


_Our life together, is so precious, together_   
_We have grown, we have grown_   
_Although our love is still special_   
_Let's take a chance and fly away somewhere alone_

  
  
  
Here, John broke into the faster rhythm and his Elvis voice became more pronounced.  He sang this solo until he got to the words “in love again” in the fourth line, at which point Paul joined in on high harmony.  It was at that moment exactly that the audience generally exploded in approval.  
  
  


_It's been too long since we took the time_   
_No-one's to blame, I know time flies so quickly_   
_But when I see you darling_   
_It's like we both are falling in love again_   
_It'll be just like starting over, starting over_

_Everyday we used to make it love_   
_Why can't we be making love nice and easy_   
_It's time to spread our wings and fly_   
_Don't let another day go by my love_   
_It'll be just like starting over, starting over_

_Why don't we take off alone?_   
_Take a trip somewhere far, far away_   
_We'll be together all alone again_   
_Like we used to in the early days_

_Well, well, well darling_

_It's been too long since we took the time_   
_No-one's to blame, I know time flies so quickly_   
_But when I see you darling_   
_It's like we both are falling in love again_   
_It'll be just like starting over, starting over_

_Our life together is so precious together_   
_We have grown, we have grown_   
_Although our love is still special_   
_Let's take a chance and fly away somewhere…_

_Starting over!_

              

*****

  
       In a way, John thought as he boarded the private jet late that night, he and Paul were “starting over” all over again.  They were headed back to London, back to the eternal triangle, but also back to a brand new home.  John at least had that to look forward to.  He knew most of the construction was finished, but the decorating was waiting for his return.  He was able to divert his mind with these thoughts as he waited to fall asleep in the little jet that was winging alone in a vast black sky over a slate grey ocean.  
  
         Paul had trouble sleeping on moving vehicles.  He had learned to do so over a thirty plus career of traveling from gig to gig, but he didn’t have John’s lucky ability to just plonk down anywhere and check out almost instantaneously.  Paul turned to see John in the seat next to him.  The seat was in full laid-back position, and John’s little snore – it was actually _delicate_ – could just barely be heard over the sound of the engines.   Paul watched the sleeping John for several minutes.  His heart was full with roiling thoughts and thrusting feelings.  Paul actually was afraid to see Linda and his children again.  He was afraid that they would not arouse any emotion in him as powerful as what he was feeling now as he gazed at the sleeping John.  And if he were no longer able to have those feelings for his wife and children, Paul knew that he would be devastated.  
  
  


*****

  
  
       Linda was picking them up at the airport.  It was just the sort of homely, down-to-earth, unpretentious thing she would do:  eschew the fancy limo, and just pull on up to the airport curb in the ages old family range rover (with dog hair on the back seat) and let Lennon & McCartney throw their bags in the trunk and jump right in as she pulled away  (before the traffic cop waved her on).  She had been through what seemed to her to be a surrealistic three months.  During the three months of the tour she had seen Paul a grand total of 10 days, a few days for each month.  They spoke everyday on the telephone, and he had sent postcards to the kids from the places he’d been, but not since she had moved in with him in the late summer of 1968 had she and Paul been physically apart so much.   Linda hadn’t expected for the separation to be that hard.  She always believed that she was a strong woman, an independent woman, who could get along and even enjoy life on her own if need be.  She loved Paul, and more importantly she liked him.  She enjoyed his company, his silly moods, even his dark Irish moods – although they scared her a little, for his sake.  He was romantic, and he told her frequently that he loved her more and more with each passing day.  It wasn’t until he was absent from their home for weeks on end that Linda realized how much Paul had filled up the house and her life.  He was an irreplaceable presence.  This truly frightened Linda, because one of the ways she had managed to live with the “John Thing” was her long and strongly held belief that Paul needed her more than she needed him.  This was a literal cornerstone of her view of their relationship, and now Linda was discovering that she had been living in a fool’s paradise.  
  
         She had hid it very well.  No one – not even her most sensitive and empathetic child, James – had noticed a difference in her affect.  But alone in her bed at night, she even cried herself to sleep some nights.  She had this terrible nagging feeling that she was losing Paul to John.  Linda didn’t like to be the weak one in their relationship.  She had felt weak as a daughter of Lee Eastman, who had devalued her because of her lack of academic acuity and her love for “stupid” things like art and animals.  She had vowed to herself she would never again be stuck in a relationship where she would be the weak one.  This had led her to marry a very fragile and needy man, her first husband, and in the end Linda had walked away because she found babying a man while also trying to raise a toddler was too draining.  It was easier for her to strike off on her own, and to raise her daughter as a single mother.  
  
         Outwardly, Linda had given up much of her independence to live with Paul, who was – at the time she met him – very set in his ways about what he wanted in a wife.  He wanted a woman who was a homemaker and mother, and that is what Linda became for him.  He also suddenly needed a creative partner, having been abandoned by John, and she tried to fill that role too, although Linda never kidded herself that she did anything other than act as a cheerleader and quasi-therapist for Paul as he went through that horrible divorce.  But as it turned out, Paul truly admired her strength, and leaned on her, but was also strong for her and she could lean on him.  They had developed, over years, through perseverance, patience and commitment – a true equal partnership.   Now Linda was afraid that the creative symbiosis that Paul shared with John was slowly but surely pulling Paul away from her.  She didn’t want to believe this, and she was going to behave around Paul as if nothing had changed, and then she would see how everything panned out.  
  
         These thoughts had sustained her all through her drive to the airport, but now she was there, and she pulled up to the curb.  She only had to wait 10 minutes, and soon Paul was opening the passenger side door, and John was sliding in the back seat.  Paul immediately leaned in and gave her a big hug and kiss, and John gave her an awkward backward hug from the back seat.  She laughed and smiled and asked them cheerful questions about South America.  She had envied them that trip.  She would have loved to go on that leg of the tour, but James needed to be in school, and she had figured out – after the disastrous Rome visit – that she was _de trop_ on tour, at least in John’s mind.  John saw Paul the performer as _his_ territory, and had come unglued when she’d shown up for three measly days.  Paul was a professional, and to him the tour was _work_ , and anything that interfered with work was bad, and apparently her presence on the tour interfered big time with the work.  Linda knew the score.  Her visits over the remainder of the tour would be few and far between.  She laughed at herself after her thoughts led her to the consolation prize:  at least she knew Paul wouldn’t be having sex with _other women_ while he was without her on tour.   John would surround Paul with a moat and alligators, and would be manning the tower with a rifle.   
  
  


*****

  
  
       John had no sooner unpacked a bag in the guest room at Cavendish before he was trotting down the garden, out the garden gate, and then down the mews to his new home.  The contractors were working on the front garden wall and gate – making it impenetrable and secure from prying eyes, and had already finished the extremely private back entrance.  A long loggia had been built across the back of the house on the ground floor so that even from above it would be difficult to see who was entering or exiting the house.  Eventually the climbing roses planted around the loggia would cover the rooftop completely and provide a more attractive sight for the neighbors’ prying eyes.  
  
         Many of the textiles, _objets_ and furnishings he had purchased for the house while on tour had arrived and were stacked in their packing crates in one of the downstairs rooms.  John was like a kid on the day before Christmas, wanting desperately to tear open the boxes, but he knew that they needed the protection of the packaging while the house was still a work in progress.   The interior designer finally showed up, and John immediately immersed himself in blueprints and swatches.  She was excited to hear about John’s South American acquisitions, and it fired up her imagination for the interior décor.  It was easier for John to surround himself with such diversions than to deal with the family activities going on at _Chez_ McCartney.  John knew he had behaved egregiously in Rome, and in doing so had spoiled Linda’s visit, so he felt awkward about hanging around Cavendish too much.  Too bad the new house wasn’t ready for occupation yet.  It was going to be a long month, but John didn’t allow himself to dwell on this fact.  _One day at a time_.  
  
        

*****

  
  
      
         Paul was completely disoriented.  He had spent the better part of three months staying in 5-star hotels, where everything was perfect, and anything you could possibly want was at the tip of your fingers.  He and John could lie around the suites naked, and no one would be the wiser.   Paul took himself on a dispirited tour of Cavendish, wandering listlessly from room to room, wanting to feel the comforts of home but somehow only managing to notice the dents in the furniture, the dirty handprints on the walls, and the thin spots in the pale blue velvet sofa.   A family clearly lived here, and the house did not make this place a home.  Realizing this, Paul headed for the kitchen – Linda’s domain – and that is where he found her, surrounded by a heavenly aroma and chatting with Mary, who had come home early from work.  Two dogs were lying on the floor.  James was at the kitchen table, struggling with his homework.  Every so often he would hit himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand.  Paul chuckled, and sat down next to his son.  
  
         “How’s the homework coming?” Paul asked softly.  
  
         “ _I can’t do it_!” James whined, shoving his paper away.  
  
         Paul looked down and saw that it was maths.  He had only been average at maths in school, but since he’d grown up and had a fortune to husband, he’d gotten very much better at it.  Quietly he helped James finish his work, speaking softly and patiently.  
  
         Linda had stopped stirring and was watching Paul.  He was so beautiful, and what a truly loving father he was.  She knew she sometimes took him for granted.  It was hard not to when she was so busy with family and her photography.  She watched James’s sour downcast expression melt into a cheerful confident one under his father’s gentle ministrations.  James had missed his father tremendously, and was clearly soaking up the attention.  
  
         Mary, meanwhile, noticed her mother watching her father.  She smiled.  She was a lucky young woman.  To have grown up in a family where the father and mother truly loved each other, even after all these years, was a priceless gift.  Someday she would find a way to let her parents know how grateful she was to them for this.  
  
         Dinner was served shortly after Stella got home, bringing clacking high heels, flying hair, and stream of consciousness talking with her.  She stopped in mid-stream when she caught sight of her father.  “ _Daddy_!” she cried.  She never called him ‘daddy’ anymore, so this endearment touched Paul as he stood up to receive the hurricane hug she was flinging at him.  “Where’s John?” she asked next.  
  
         “At the new house, torturing the decorator,” Paul quipped, and they all laughed.  
  
         “I can’t wait to see how it looks when it’s done,” Stella said excitedly, and then disappeared into the downstairs bathroom to freshen up for dinner.   
  
         “I’ll just call over there, and tell him dinner is ready,” Paul said, but just as he was about to pick up the phone they all heard John shouting,  
        
         “I’m _back_!  Where _is_ everyone?”  A moment later and he was in the kitchen receiving hugs from all and sundry.  Even the dogs got up to greet him, wagged their tails, wandered about a little, and then plopped back down again.  They were getting old.  
  
         Linda had made a hearty vegetable stew and some genuine American cornbread.  There was a green salad to start, and later a peach cobbler for dessert.  
  
         Over dinner, John had broken the happy news that Sean was spending the next month with him, and that he would be arriving at the airport in two days.  James perked right up, and offered up the extra twin bed in his room to Sean.  
  
         “It’ll be a good Christmas,” John announced, holding up his glass of red wine to collect clicks from the others.   Hearing that Sean was coming had buoyed his spirits immensely.  
  
         “It’s been a long time since you’ve seen Sean, hasn’t it?” Linda commented.  
  
         “Yeah, not since the week before we left for the tour.  He is quite serious about school right now, and so I have to wait for his school holidays to see him.”  John had not been happy when Yoko had explained to him that Sean wanted to stay in New York with his friends, and focus on his school activities, and so wouldn’t be going on tour with John, even for visits, unless it was school holidays.  But John had acquiesced in this decision, because Sean hadn’t contradicted his mother.  
  
         “Well, what do you think if I invite Julian and Cynthia for Christmas dinner?” Linda asked.  “I understand Cynthia is on her own again.”  
  
         “ _Again_?”  John let his impatience slip out in his tone.  
  
         “Well, I don’t know for sure, but Julian mentioned to me she has been staying in London lately, and I guess I assumed that meant she was on her own.  Perhaps I’m wrong.”  
  
         “Well, if she’s still with the latest in the long line of men she’s been with, I don’t want him here with me for Christmas.  But if it is just her, I suppose Julian would like that.”  John was grudging in his admission, and Linda was glad that James had left the table, and Mary and Stella were rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher.  John’s lack of empathy for Cynthia was not a very attractive side of his personality.  
  
  


*****

  
       By bedtime, Paul was feeling a bit more relaxed.  He still felt like a person waiting for the other shoe to drop, but the anxiety surrounding this wait became less intense with each passing hour.  He and Linda had snuggled in front of the TV, and John had sat peacefully across from them, snuggling with the cat.  _To each his own_ , Paul had thought wryly to himself.  Now Paul was in bed with Linda.  They had showered together, and then had made love.  He was holding her in his arms and they whispered silly endearments to each other, and giggled.  It helped Paul feel like himself again.  But after Linda had dropped off to sleep, Paul had lain awake a while, missing the feeling of John’s arm around him and the scratchy, fuzzy feel of John’s beard on his chest.


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is celebrated, a "family" gathers, some hearts are mended, and love is deepened.

         Sean’s arrival had upped the ante in the Cavendish stakes.   Although at 13 he was almost 2 years older than the 11 year-old James, Sean was a kind and gentle boy who tolerated James’s immaturity well.  He was thrilled to see his father and Paul again, and Linda, too.  As he’d grown older he had actually also grown closer to his own mother.  She was a better mother for a teenage boy than she’d been for a baby or a toddler.  So out of loyalty to Yoko he had pulled back from his earlier hero-worship of Linda.  Still, he felt warm and secure whenever he was in Linda’s kitchen while she was doing her super mom thing.  Actually, Sean’s new hero-worshipping was aimed at James’s older sisters, especially the vibrant, formidable 17 year-old Stella.  Sean soon had developed a strong unrequited crush on the dynamic older girl.  
  
         Linda had found out after talking to Julian that Cynthia was in the midst of a “trial separation” from the man she was living with.  They had fallen out over the failed restaurant called ‘Rubber Sole’.  Linda didn’t think John knew about the restaurant venture, and he wouldn’t find out about it from her – that’s for sure!  She had already advised Julian against mentioning it to John.  Having John’s blessing - however unenthusiastic - Linda had invited both Cynthia and Julian to dinner for Christmas Eve.  As Linda agonized over what to give Cynthia for Christmas, Paul solved the problem by announcing that he’d bought something that would be right for Cynthia while they were in South America.  He found it amongst his private little packages, and gave it to Linda to wrap.  It was a beautiful stone necklace made in Chile.  
  
         In the weeks leading up to the Christmas celebrations, John and Linda had entered into a kind of “truce”, whereby neither of them mentioned the difficulties experienced between the two of them and Paul in Rome, as if by secret agreement.  Paul looked anxious and hyperactive whenever John and Linda were alone together, clearly evincing fear that something untoward might be said, so neither John nor Linda felt that mentioning it to each other would be a good idea.   Instead, they did their best to act like friends.  But John “knew” that Linda resented him for spoiling her trip to Rome, and Linda “knew” that John had resented her presence on tour.  Neither of them was actually correct, but the Roman episode seemed to be a stake stuck straight through what had been a warm and growing friendship.  
  
         Paul did sense that the warmth shown between John and Linda was a bit forced, but he couldn’t get either one of them to admit it.   Consequently, he spent the holidays walking around on eggshells, looking for drama at every turn, but finding only a slightly stilted cheerful façade.   
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      It was Christmas Eve day.   Linda had spent the entire day in the kitchen with all three of her daughters (Heather and her boyfriend had come to London for the holiday) working on a vegetarian Christmas feast.  Baking and cooking smells filled the house and made stomachs grumble.  James and Sean were in James’s room, playing _Super Mario Brothers_.  Paul and John had taken a quick trip over to their new home, and John had walked Paul through each room, explaining his plans in detail.  In truth, Paul was extremely impressed with the thoroughness of John’s vision.  He had never actually seen this side of John – the patient and detail-oriented developer of a time-consuming plan – and this feeling of impressed surprise kept Paul from making any mischievous remarks about John being overly excited about home decoration.  
  
         After this visit, John and Paul had gone back to Cavendish, and had disappeared for hours in the attic room, locking the door behind them.   They made love in languorous fashion, and then fell asleep, sated, in each other’s arms.  It was a few hours before they heard a doorbell and loud greeting sounds drifting up from the ground floor.  John stirred first.  He was the one spooning Paul, and he propped himself up on his elbow, as he blinked in the dimmed evening light.   He looked down on Paul’s angelic face, and his eyes caressed Paul’s profile.  The long eyelashes left shadows on Paul’s face, and John leaned over and began kissing him on the neck, the jaw, and the cheek.  _I love you baby,_ he thought to himself.  He inadvertently squeezed Paul so hard, that suddenly Paul’s eyes flew open.  
  
         Paul blinked in response to his sudden wakefulness.  He turned slightly and saw John’s grinning face looking down on him.  He reflexively smiled back into John’s loving face.  The smile was so innocent, so spontaneous, that it made John’s heart pound very hard.  
  
         “I think the guests have arrived downstairs,” John whispered.  “I heard the doorbell and the greetings.  We need to put our clothes on, and go downstairs.”  
  
         Paul listened to what John said, nodded slightly, and then began to move his body to wake up his muscles.  Reluctantly the two men let each other go, and they stumbled around sleepily in the room, trying to put their clothes on again.  They each used the attached bathroom, and then, after a powerful hug, they left the attic room, and worked their way down two flights of stairs to the ground floor.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      Mary had heard the bell first, and had pushed the button to release the electric gate for Julian and Cynthia.   She had been the one to give them each huge hugs and kisses under the mistletoe that was hanging right inside the front door.  
  
         Linda came bustling up to the front door to welcome her guests, and behind her was Stella, bearing two warm cups of homemade eggnog complete with fresh ground nutmeg.  
  
         Julian and Cynthia flourished their bag of gifts, and these were quickly stowed beneath the tall fir tree, filled with a combination of old American and British ornaments, and little colored fairy lights and tinsel “icicles” dripping from every branch.  
       
         “The tree is beautiful!” Cynthia pronounced as she placed the gifts under the tree.  “And the house smells heavenly – what’s on the menu?”  
       
         Linda had already excused herself and headed back to the kitchen, but Stella was still there.  “We’ve made all my mum’s specialties – we’ve got a tofu wellington roast, and her famous mac and cheese, sweet potatoes with ginger and rosemary, mashed potatoes with sour cream and chives, charred broiled Brussels sprouts, green beans with soy cream and mushrooms, homemade biscuits, and cornbread stuffing with dried cranberries, nuts, mushrooms, and celery.”  
  
         Cynthia’s stomach growled loudly in response, and everyone laughed.  Cynthia said, “That sounds spectacular, and I’m so grateful you thought of me.”  
       
         Cynthia had actually been more amazed than grateful for the invitation, but the gratitude was real.  Still, it was a bit awkward.  She really wasn’t sure of how welcome she was to John.  And then there was what she now knew about John and Paul.  And her first time seeing them together Linda and the kids would be there!  Awkward, but Cynthia was doing this for Julian’s sake.  And maybe a little part of her hoped she could again find the John Lennon she once knew.  
  
         It was not long after her arrival that John and Paul came downstairs and greeted Cynthia and Julian.  Paul went straight to Cyn for a huge hug and kiss, whereas John headed for Julian, and gave him an awkward hug.   Then Paul headed for Julian and gave him a warm, enveloping hug – not the least bit awkward.  John was faced with an uncertain Cynthia.  She had an anxious expression on her face, not sure of her reception by the mercurial John Lennon.  But John was in a great mood after having such a fulfilling shag and nap with Paul, so he allowed himself to smile warmly at this woman who used to be his wife, and then he said, “Cyn – it’s been a long time.  How are you luv?”  
  
         Cynthia melted.  She had always been putty in John’s hands.  “I’m feeling much better now,” Cyn said softly.  “Now that you and Paul have so kindly allowed me to share this evening.”  As soon as she said it, she cursed herself.  Should she have said “Paul and Linda” instead?  Or “You, Paul and Linda?”  Or maybe “All of you” would have been better?  Cynthia looked around and seeing that no one appeared to be put out by what she said, she forced herself to calm down.  
  
         Far from insulting John, Cynthia’s humble comment touched John’s heart.  He wasn’t really a mean, small person.  He was just deeply insecure, and needed to protect himself from being hurt, and his M.O. was to reject first, before anyone else could reject him.  Somehow, the anxiety and hope in Cyn’s eyes melted John’s heart.  He held out his arms, and she fell into them, and they hugged for a good 30 seconds.  As they pulled apart, they still had their arms loosely around each other.  
  
         “How are you doin’, Cyn baby?” John asked softly, his eyes warm and sympathetic, for her ears only.  
  
         Cyn’s eyes filled with tears and she allowed her forehead to fall forward and lean against John’s collarbone.  And she whispered, “Life hasn’t always worked out for me.”  
  
         John felt tears threatening in the back of his eyes, but was able to control them. How had he allowed this old friend of his – the woman who had helped him through those confusing teen and early twenties years – to feel so helpless and abandoned?  He held her tightly and shushed her sweetly in her ear.  From 15 feet away, Julian watched, and felt tears welling up in his throat and his eyes.  He loved his mother more than anything, and he needed his father more than anything.  Seeing this wonderful healing moment healed something inside of Julian, and he wasn’t clear how or why or even _what_.  But the moment was soon over, and John was letting Cyn go.  Paul had observed this, too, from a darkened corner of the hallway, and his heart had filled with love for John in that moment.  John was not a hard person.  John just fought against the truth all the time – he wanted others to believe that he was tough and untouchable, but nothing could be further from the truth:  inside, John was soft and vulnerable.  
  
  


*****

  
  
      There they were, all arranged around the huge dining room table:  Paul, Linda, Heather, her boyfriend, Mary, Stella, James, John, Sean, Cynthia, and Julian.  Instead of praying before the meal, they all agreed to meditate for 60 seconds.  Each was allowed to pray, meditate or muse to his or her heart’s desire.  Then they all pounced on the succulent smelling food.  For a good 10 minutes nothing but “ _pass me the…”_ and “ _thanks, much…_ ” were heard as the dishes were circulated around the table.  Linda had perched on the tail end of the table – closest to the kitchen.  She was aware of everyone’s level of pleasure and comfort, and reacted immediately to make her guests comfortable and happy.  Paul watched her from the other end of the table, and his heart was filled with pride.  She was such a giving, loving person, and she was _his_.  He smiled across the table at her with such an uncomplicated adoration, that Linda softened, and smiled back in her sunny, all-or-nothing style.  
  
         The meal was much appreciated by everyone, and they all sat around the table for over an hour laughing and talking.  Then Linda brought out her _piece de resistance_ – two homemade boysenberry pies.  Linda had had the frozen boysenberries flown in to London from Oregon, which is the only place where boysenberries grow.   John, Cynthia, Julian and Sean had never experienced boysenberries before.  Linda had of course exposed her children and Paul to them years earlier.  But John, Cyn, Julian and Sean were blown away by the flavor:  imagine blackberries leavened slightly by the sweetness of raspberries, and you get boysenberries.  The piecrust was flaky and mouth-watering, and the vanilla bean frozen yogurt, mint leaves, Grand Marnier liqueur and freshly ground cinnamon seemed to be the perfect garnishes.  
       
         Throughout dinner, Cynthia watched the interactions of John, Paul and Linda, and could not see anything the slightest bit unusual, or that would lead her to believe that the three of them had a – “complicated” – relationship.  No, Paul was at the head of the table opposite Linda at the other end.  John sat across the table from her, and the kids were arrayed around them.  They seemed like a family, but more like John was an uncle or close family friend.   Cynthia was finding it hard to believe that Julian’s confidences on the subject were accurate.  But then, she had never seen anything unusually intimate between John and Paul in all the years they had known each other except for the way John used to look at Paul when he thought no one was watching.  There was _that_ , Cynthia reminded herself.  But she wasn’t seeing much of that tonight.  
  
         Finally, everyone decamped to the sitting room, and took in the sight of the huge gleaming tree with the enticing presents beckoning from underneath.  
  
         Mary was acting as “Santa” that night, and began to plow through the presents, handing them to the recipients.  “Here’s one for you, Dad,” Mary said with a big smile.  “And here’s one for you, Mum.”  The delivery of presents went on for fifteen minutes, until a present was pulled out.  “Here’s one for you, Cynthia,” Mary said, and passed over a small box wrapped in vivid blue paper with a bright red ribbon.  
  
         Cynthia was pleasantly surprised, and when she opened the gift card, her pleasure turned into something warmer and more meaningful.  The card said, “Have a happy year next year, Love John.”  Her eyes immediately sought out John’s, and his eyes were focused on the present in her hands.  She ripped off the paper, and soon was opening the little box and revealed a beautiful necklace with several huge turquoise/green opals, surrounded by lapis and jade beads, all of them in geometric shapes, and fixed in sterling silver beds.  There was a pair of matching earrings, as well.  Cyn felt the air filling her lungs, and then her eyes looked at John’s.  John’s eyes looked expectant, warm.  Cyn moved towards him and hugged him closely.  “Thank you, John, this is _so_ beautiful,” she whispered in his ear.  
  
         John was a bit confused.  He hadn’t purchased this gift, and had never seen it before, although Linda had made him sign the card.  While Cyn was hugging him he happened to meet Paul’s eyes, and saw that Paul winked at him warmly.  John realized in that moment that Paul had purchased this necklace and earrings, and had given John credit for it.  As John’s eyes met Paul’s, he knew that he would not be cruel enough to disillusion Cynthia, so he allowed her to thank him profusely for the gift.  
  
         “It’s from South America,” John said, taking a risk.  
  
         “Peru, right?” Paul asked idly, as if he was recalling the time and the place of the purchase.  
  
         “Yeah, right, Peru,” John agreed.  
  
         Cynthia hugged him again. “You don’t know what this means to me!”  
  
         John didn’t see Julian’s expression.  Julian’s eyes were filled with tears, and in that moment he was very grateful that his father had done this for his mother.  
  
         “I’m glad you like it,” John said, feeling a bit like a fraud, but understanding – perhaps for the first time in his life - that sometimes lying is a good thing.  Sometimes it makes life easier if you lie for the benefit of the people you care about, who deserve to feel better.  
  
         The present Paul put under the tree for Linda was ensconced in a high-quality parchment envelope.  There was a lovely box, too, which, when Linda opened it, revealed the classic onyx necklace and matching earrings.  Linda was enchanted, but when she opened the envelope, she was left gasping for breath.  The envelope included a letter from a nature preserve for the Southern Tailed Otter from Chile.  A donation of a million pounds in her name was such that it almost ensured the survival of that species for the next 10 years.  The letter explained the importance of the donation.  Linda squealed as she read this, and flew into Paul’s open arms.  And Paul was unsurprised but proud that his wife was the kind of woman who appreciated a donation to help save a species of animal over any kind of personal gift to herself.  
  
         The rest of the night went by in a warm, fluid steam of memories.  Eventually, Julian and Cyn left, and everyone hugged and kissed them as they did so.   As the door closed behind them, both Cyn and Julian felt as though they had been bathed in warmth and affection for several hours in a row.  Linda was exhausted, and went up to bed, where she soon fell asleep.  The kids all decamped to their bedrooms, and also soon fell asleep.  John went to the attic room, and tucked himself into the daybed.  Paul went to the master bedroom, and finding Linda sound asleep, he went in to his closet and found the box he had secreted there a few weeks before.  He took the box up to the attic floor, and knocked softly on the music room door.  
  
         “What?” John’s voice echoed in the empty room  
  
         Paul opened the door, and came in holding the box.  
“John, I’ve got your present,” he said softly.  
  
         “I thought we agreed not to give each other gifts,” John said, his voice confused and a little cross.  
  
         “No, I agreed not to put a gift for you under the tree,” Paul said in a soft and gentle voice.  
  
         John sat up in the daybed, and when Paul turned on a dim lamp, he saw a box in Paul’s arms.  It was a box that was about 12 inches wide by 9 inches tall.    His heart began to beat hard, and his eyes met Paul’s.  “I don’t have anything for you, babe,” John said, feeling guilty and lost.  
  
         Paul grinned with generous warmth that bathed John with forgiveness.  “ _Good_ ,” Paul said.  “I don’t want anything from you, Johnny.  You’ve already given me everything I need or want.”  Paul placed the box on the daybed, next to John’s leg.  The wrapping paper was pure gold, and the bow was pure silver.  There was a fairly large card attached to the ribbon.  John picked up the present, and opened up the card:  
  
         “ _It is difficult to find a gift that will surprise and compliment the most important person in your world.  I hope this meets the mark.  Love, Paul_.”  
  
         John’s wondering eyes looked up and met Paul’s almost shy ones.  Blinking with wonder, John began to unwrap the present.  When the paper was gone, a box remained.  John broke the seal on the box, and saw the lid of a silver box inside.  John removed the silver box from the cardboard box, and soon realized it was an exquisite engraved silver box, with elaborately carved legs.   He looked up in mystified wonder to Paul, whose warm eyes urged him to continue on.  
  
         “What’s this?” John asked softly.  
  
         “It’s Argentinian, circa 1750.  It’s a man’s jewelry box.”  
  
         “Where did you find it?” John asked, a thrill going down his spine, as he realized that this was an extraordinarily personal gift.  
  
         “In Buenos Aires, when you were looking at textiles,” Paul said with a mischievous lift to his eyebrow.  
  
         John smiled.  He then lifted the lid of the box, and inside he found a clutch of jewelry pieces, all silver with semi-precious stones, and engraved silver settings.  He recognized the look of the jewelry – it was like the jewelry they’d seen in South America.  
       
         John looked up at Paul, and Paul’s eyes were eager and encouraging him to explore the contents of the box.  So John picked up the largest piece.   It appeared to be an extremely over-large necklace, with turquoise and jadite beads.  
  
         “What on earth is this?” John asked, holding it up in front of Paul.  
  
         Paul laughed.  “It’s for the man who has everything.”  
  
         “What do you mean?” John asked, noting Paul’s choked laughter.  
  
         “You wanted to decorate your cock…” Paul said, laughing some more.  
  
         John looked at the item again with new eyes.  “Oh my God!” he shouted.  “It’s for a loin piece!”  John started laughing heartily, right along with Paul.  “Where on earth did you find this?”  
  
         “It’s not a vintage piece, but I thought you’d find it amusing,” Paul said, after controlling his laughter.  “It’s from Venezuela.  I remembered what you’d said – about how they used to be able to decorate their cocks.  I thought maybe you’d want to have this piece sewed on to a loin cloth…”  
  
         “ _Oooh_ , _god_ , Pud, you are so naughty!”  John declared amidst a waterfall of giggles.  “This is the greatest thing ever!”  
  
         “Well, withhold judgment, until you see what else is there,” Paul said with a seductive, husky voice.  
  
         John grinned – his smile was like a child’s, trusting and anticipatory – and pulled out the next item, the necklace from  
Brazil.  It had a number of celadon colored stones in it, but it was very masculine, too, and none of the stones was large.  “What’s this?” John asked.  
  
         “It’s a necklace, John, but for a man.”  
       
         John lifted it up until he could see the whole necklace.  His eyes were lit up with the light of expectant hope.  He held the necklace out in front of him, until Paul grabbed the two ends, and then connected them. The necklace fell down on John’s throat and chest, and he saw himself in the mirror that was strategically hung behind him.  “It’s kind of weird to wear a necklace,” John said slowly.  
  
         “You are making a statement,” Paul responded softly.  “Don’t worry so much.  By the way, this ring goes with it.”  Paul brought out the beautiful silver ring with the pale green prasiolite as its center stone, with the exquisite deep Persian blue Masasi garnet side stones.  “These are from Brazil,” Paul told John, and he held the ring up for John’s finger.  
  
         John gasped with the beauty of it.  “Gorgeous,” was all he could say.  He tore his eyes away from the ring to look at Paul’s face.  He was utterly surprised and touched by how much thought went into Paul’s gifts.  How many hours had he spent choosing such special, incredible items?  
  
         John then pulled out the silver bracelet that was engraved with Incan figures.  He put the bracelet on, and admired his wrist from afar, a slight grin on his face.  “This is really special,” John said in a soft, dreamy voice.  
  
         “It is authentic, John, so be careful with it,” Paul said.  “It is about 250 years old, from Peru.  But I think you should definitely wear it.  It’s fully insured.  The idea is to honor the artisan who made it by actually wearing it.”  
  
         John felt the bracelet and again held his arm out to admire it from afar.  “This is so incredible, Paul, I had no idea what you were up to!”  
  
         “There’s a few surprises up my sleeve at all times, John,” Paul said with a warm smile.  “Here’s another ring, from Chile.”  
  
         John picked up the silver engraved ring with the large lapis lazuli stone in the middle.  He slipped it on to his finger and it fit perfectly.  
  
         “I’ve had them sized,” Paul added, very proud of himself to have thought of it.  
  
         “Paul, this must have cost you a fortune,” Paul said, looking at the 2 rings, the bracelet, the necklace, the jewelry box and the loincloth decoration spread out in front of him.  
  
         “It’s a drop in the bucket to what you mean to me,” Paul said seriously, leaning down and giving John a sweet kiss on his mouth.  “I’m not the most demonstrative lover to you, I know that.  I do my best, but I realize it often falls short.  I swear I’m going to do better, if you’re patient, and let me get comfortable with it.”  
  
         John’s voice was caught in his throat, and he was silent, much to his distress.  He couldn’t help it.  This was so incredibly and unbelievably the kind of thing that would amount to a fantasy – but here it was - a true and real event!  He had never thought he would live to see the day.  Could he trust this feeling?  
  
         Paul had then excused himself, in order to climb into bed with Linda, who had knocked herself out that day cooking for everyone else.  He held her in his arms, and a warm feeling lapped the edges of his mind gently until he fell into a contented sleep.   It was the next morning, when they both awoke, that they made love.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      John had been blown away by Paul’s thoughtfulness and generosity.  It had a strange effect on him – this magic silver box filled with special hand-chosen, one-of-a-kind gifts.  He began to feel bad about how he had been acting towards Linda.  He’d been polite and friendly, but there had been no warmth or intimacy in his words or expressions.  He decided his return gift to Paul would be to reach out to Linda, and quadruple his efforts to be a good friend to her.  
  
         With this idea firmly in mind, John had straggled down the stairs to the kitchen a bit late, where he found Linda gathering up items to start breakfast for everyone.  
  
         “Where’s His Nibs?” John asked her after they had shyly smiled good morning to each other.  
  
         “He’s taken Sean and James out to the park.  They're trying out their new skateboards.”  Linda smiled and John chuckled.  
  
         “I see you’re starting to cook again.  Can I help?”  John said sweetly.  
  
         Linda did a genuine double take.  The first look was one of pleasant surprise and perhaps a little suspicion.  The second look was one of  barely expressed hope and perhaps a little distrust.  “Of course,” she said.  “The aprons are in that drawer over there.”  
  
         John chuckled and obeyed.  He didn’t use aprons when he cooked, but he was a sous chef in Linda’s kitchen, which meant he must follow her rules.  
  
         “The soap is right here,” Linda said, gesturing to a bottle next to the sink.  
  
         John obediently scrubbed his hands.  
  
         Linda said she was going to make a large frittata, and pointed to a huge paella pan hanging on a hook in the ceiling.  John took it down.  “Why don’t you season it,” Linda said, handing him a well-used can of grape seed oil.  
  
         “What does that mean, ‘season’?” John asked.  
  
         “You prepare the pan by putting oil in it, and then rubbing the oil in for a few minutes with a cooking cloth.”  Linda handed him a fine, paper-thin piece of gauze.  John stared at it. Linda noticed and explained.  “It’s cheesecloth.  Just go ahead and use that to rub the pan with oil.”  
  
         John picked up the can of oil.  “ _Grape seed oil_?” he asked.  
  
         Linda smiled.  “It has an extremely high heat tolerance, and it is nutritionally good for you.  It’s also pretty flavorless, so it doesn’t interfere with the ingredients you’re using.”  Linda was talking patiently while she lined up a group of vegetables to start chopping.  
  
         John was impressed by Linda’s precise understanding of the nature of cooking, and told himself for the hundredth time he would have to stop underestimating the woman’s intelligence.  He picked up the cloth and began to follow Linda’s instructions.  When he was finished with that, Linda gave him a red bell pepper.  She showed him how to cut the pepper in short, very slender strips, and set him to work doing it.  Together, in this quiet way, they completed the prep for the frittata, having made delicate and slender strips of spinach, red bell pepper, shallots, mint, and oyster mushrooms, along with tiny yellow tomatoes, cut precisely in half.  The colorful array of vegetables looked cheerful and healthy sitting there on the cutting board, and John gave Linda an uncomplicated smile.  
  
         Linda showed John how she broke eggs into a small ramekin before gently pouring them one at a time on to the now mildly preheated and seasoned pan, and, after adding a slight smidge of milk straight into the pan, stirred the concoction in the pan with a wooden stick that seemed purpose made for the task.  
  
         “What’s that thing?” John asked, indicating the stick.  
  
         “It’s called a spurtle,” Linda explained.  “It’s a Scottish stirring stick, meant mostly for porridge.  There was one in Paul’s kitchen at the farmhouse in Scotland the first time I visited it, and I have used spurtles ever since to scramble eggs.  They’re much gentler than a fork, and more effective than a spatula.”  
  
         John stared at Linda in wonder.  _Where on earth did she come from_?   John knew she had never taken photography lessons, although she was an incredible photographer who knew how to develop her own prints.  And she had never had cooking lessons, either, but clearly knew her way around the kitchen in a professional way.  
  
         As the eggs cooked, John watched Linda deftly sprinkling various spices and herbs on the eggs.  All of the herbs were fresh grown and had been expertly chopped, and all the spices had been freshly ground right there and then.  
  
         “How do you know which ones to use?” John asked, genuinely curious.  
  
         “I have to buy the herbs in the market in the winter, because of course my herb garden out back doesn’t grow in the winter.  Whatever looks best in the market is what I use.”  
  
         John nodded, and watched as in another pan, Linda quickly sautéed the onions with garlic in olive oil and sea salt, and then added one by one the other vegetables, until they were slightly cooked.  She then arranged them artfully on top of the eggs, turned down the heat under the eggs, and covered the large pan with a huge lid.  She set a timer for 90 seconds.  When the timer went off, she lifted the lid, and the frittata looked set.  She then lowered the gas heat almost to nothing, reset the lid, and said,  
  
         “Want some coffee?  The eggs will sit for a while until everyone’s ready for breakfast.”  
  
         They sat at the kitchen table nursing their coffees.  John felt it was his responsibility to speak first, since it was his conduct in Rome that had originally upset the apple cart.  “I’m sorry about my behavior in Rome, Linda,” he said simply.  He was surprised at how easy it was for him to apologize to this woman.  It was because she was so matter-of-fact and non-judgmental, John supposed.  
  
         “Well, thanks, but Paul totally over-reacted,” Linda said calmly.  “I tried to persuade him to calm down, but you know how he gets when he’s anxious.  I told him you were twisting his tail.”  Linda had a wry smile on her face as John looked up quickly.  
  
         “How so?” he asked, pretending to be put out by the comment.  
  
         “Trying to make him jealous?”  Linda’s eyes were twinkling.  There was warmth in them though, so John was not offended.  
  
         John chuckled.  “It was a lamebrain idea, and it just popped into my head, and I didn’t think it through,” John admitted.  “I don’t know why I did it.”  
  
         Linda was looking at John with a shrewd glint in her eyes.  
  
         “ _What?_ ” John asked the face.  
  
         “You know why you did it, you just don’t want to accept it,” Linda said firmly.  
  
         “So why do _you_ think I did it?” John asked bluntly, a little irritated that Linda could see through his rationalizations.  
  
         “You want Paul entirely to yourself, and especially when you’re on tour, you think you have a right to have him all to yourself.  You were acting out because you can’t have what you want – which is Paul all to yourself.”  Linda had put her coffee cup down, and the expression on her face was no-nonsense.  
  
         John stared at her blankly for several long, quiet seconds.  He finally spoke.  “That may be true, but I’m sure _you_ want him to yourself, _too_.”  John’s voice sounded a bit petulant, which made Linda think of her son James when he was pouting, and so she smiled ever so gently.  
  
         “Yes, I do want him to myself in my heart of hearts,” Linda admitted without guilt or pretense.  “But the difference between you and me, I think, is that I never once in my life thought I was _entitled_ to everything I wanted, just the way I wanted it.  All my life I have had to compromise in order to get at least _part_ of what I wanted, and I have grown up to believe that is true for everyone.  Some of us realize this, and can get comfortable with the idea, and others of us refuse to accept it.”  Linda looked tellingly into John’s eyes.  “It’s much harder being like you than it is being like me, so I don’t get mad at you, I just feel bad for you.  It must hurt like hell to walk around always feeling like you don’t have enough, instead of thinking you’re lucky for what you’ve got.”  
  
         John was speechless.  Linda had so precisely described his inner feelings that he didn’t know where to look or what to say.  The silence had only just begun to be uncomfortable, and Linda had just begun to believe she had misgauged John’s mood and had gone too far, when John finally was able to speak.  
  
         “Why do you suppose you’re the way you are, and I’m the way I am?  Is it because I didn’t have parents?”  John didn’t really expect an answer, but he was interested in Linda’s opinion on the subject anyway.  
  
         “Who knows?”  Linda said after taking a moment to reflect on the question.   “You may not have had parents, but then you didn’t have a parent who, in almost every way possible, made you feel as though you were a major disappointment, like I did.  Not only was I a girl, but a girl who was not academic.  School grades and hard money-earning work is what my father valued.  I was a dreamer and a wanna be artist. My father truly respects artistic talent; he is a literary agent, for heaven’s sake.  But when I was young, he didn’t believe I had any creative talent to speak of, and therefore I was wasting my time mooning around and was not worthy of respect.”  
  
         John stared at Linda’s solemn face with deep sympathy etched in all of the wrinkles.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t know, but I should have.  Your father always scared the shit out of me.  I bleedin’ _hated_ him.  He always talked down to me, and treated me like an idiot.  Did he treat Paul that way too?”  
  
         Linda chuckled.  “Paul is my dad’s worst nightmare – the living, walking, breathing, thinking antithesis to his belief that intelligence is linked to numbers and business, and creativity is linked to a lack of logic and judgment, and never the twain shall meet.  Paul is savvy with business, wise with money, and a tough and canny negotiator.  But he is also a very successful and outrageously creative person.  Dad respects Paul but can’t intimidate him.  And Paul respects Dad but doesn’t like him that much.  The reason he doesn’t like Dad very much is the way Dad treats _me._ When Dad speaks to me with disrespect in front of Paul, Paul will stand up, even if we’re in the middle of dinner, and say, ‘We’re leaving now.  I won’t let you speak that way to Linda.’  No one else has ever stood up to my father for me like that.  They were all too afraid of him.”  
  
         John listened to Linda’s story, and he felt an affinity for her he’d never actually felt before.  He, too, had been treated like an ignoramus by the adults in his life because he hated school, sucked at maths, and could care less about their rules.  He was a dreamer too, and a “wanna be artist”, and no one really believed he would amount to anything, either.  
  
         John suddenly had an insight.  It hit him like a bolt of lightening.  He and Linda were not that different – they had many things in common.  The significant difference between them was as Linda said – she was more comfortable in her skin, despite what her father had put her through, and she had decided not to _fight_ disappointment and fear, but to embrace, accept, and get comfortable with it.  She was very like John, except she hadn’t his fear of showing the gentle, nurturing, and vulnerable core of her personality.  In essence, when Paul found Linda he had found John again – but a kinder, gentler, less self-absorbed and far more self-aware version of John.  
  
         Linda had been sitting quietly, watching the expressions chase across John’s face.  He was handsome, but in a one-off kind of way.  He might not have seemed so handsome to everyone if his eyes weren’t so clever and full of mischief, and if his smile wasn’t so heart-stoppingly stunning.   John’s smile literally _beamed_.  Yes, it was John’s personality that made his looks special and defined his handsomeness.  There was so much talent, love, fun, and, yes, crippling fear coexisting inside that head of his.  Linda wondered what he was thinking about to make his face light up with so many competing expressions.  
  
         “You’ve given me a lot to think about,” John finally said out loud.  “I usually see everything only through my own prism.  It’s a flaw in my character, and I should be trying to change that.”  
  
         Linda smiled warmly.  “Well, don’t change too much, promise me,” she said softly,  “because it’s you being you that makes you so special.”


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul start the Asian leg of their tour, and connections are made with the Harrisons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note for the future: I have now almost finished Part II, The Elephants Dance. Chapter 55 will be the last one, with a cliffhanger. Part III will be a lot darker, I'm afraid, and we'll see how it goes. In the meantime, the tour continues...

        The sound of the audience was roaring behind them as John and Paul ran down a ramp, and into their limo.  They were sporting large absorbent towels that backstage hands had thrown on to their shoulders as they’d rushed off the stage.  It wasn’t until the car had peeled away from the arena and on to an adjacent highway that they each began to rub the sweat and make up off their faces and necks.  
  
         It was late January 1989, and they had just completed their second and last concert in Tokyo, and this was their penultimate performance of their Asian tour.  They were next on their way to Honolulu, Hawaii.   They had completed 10 concerts in just under a month, working at a quicker pace than they’d done in South America.  They’d started in Wellington, New Zealand, flown on to Sydney, Australia for two nights followed by a night in Melbourne, Australia.  From there they had flown to Jakarta, Indonesia, and had actually taken a few days off before that concert to relax a bit.  Their stop after that filled them both with a little trepidation:  Manila, the Philippines.  The last time they’d gone there, in June 1966, they’d been driven out by soldiers in plain clothes who were wielding batons and sticks.  It had been a nightmarish experience, and was the main reason why Paul had finally agreed with John and George that they wouldn’t tour any longer after the Beatles’ last American tour.  
  
         Of course, 23 years had passed, and the egregious Marcos family was gone, and the Philippines had changed along with the times.  The concert there had been enormously successful, and everyone – including the journalists who interviewed them – had taken the time to apologize to them for their treatment the last time they’d come.   John and Paul had said that they never held it against the people of the Philippines, and made a few gracious jokes, and that seemed to help convince the country that they were holding no grudges.  
  
         From the Philippines they’d flown on for two concerts in Osaka, Japan.  Returning to Japan was another nervous moment for Paul, who had been tossed out of Japan after 10 days in jail almost exactly 9 years earlier because of the 8 ounces of pot he’d stupidly stashed in his suitcase.  They’d told him then good riddance and don’t come back, but apparently those in power who had issued that decree were no longer in power, but Paul was still famous and beloved by the Japanese people.  So again Paul listened politely to everyone’s apologies until he finally pointed out, “I was the idiot who ignored your laws, and I deserved what I got.  I should apologize to you.  In fact – I do!”  The journalists in the audience laughed at Paul’s cheerful but rueful demeanor, and soon the whole ugly episode was forgotten amidst the celebration over the music John and Paul had brought with them to share with Japan.  
  
         John knew Japan fairly well and loved it, having visited a few times in the ‘70s - once with Yoko, and then once again, with Sean.  He felt a bit proud being able to show Paul around to all the best and most secret spots in Osaka, and then later in Tokyo, the next stop on the tour.   They had taken a few days off before the Tokyo concert to do some sight seeing, although the plans were all based on John’s specific instructions.  Paul had enjoyed being a tagalong on John’s Excellent Adventure.  He sat back and let John take the reins, and all he had to do was enjoy the results.  It was a sumo wrestling contest, though, that had thoroughly (and surprisingly) captured Paul’s imagination the most.  John was dumbfounded, because he himself found it entertaining only because it was a bit kinky – all those huge great nearly naked men mauling each other.  Paul, however, got into the rules, and the drama of it, asking numerous questions about the history of the sport and the referee’s calls from their translator, who was also a sumo wrestling fan.   John watched Paul get lost in the pageantry of it, and thought to himself, _I’m never going to know that man all the way through.  Every fucking day it’s a new surprise_.  Of course, that was a main reason he loved Paul so much – the “unknowableness” of him - even after all the layers he’d peeled off already.  
  
         They had also gone to a teahouse in a Tokyo _hanamachi_. There John and Paul had been entertained by two very delicate but deceptively strong geisha, who each wore a sense of gravitas as if it were a halo.   John had explained geisha to Paul, or, at least he explained as much as he had been able to pick up over the years, which was a lot more than most westerners.  
  
         “They’re not prostitutes,” John said sternly.  “Westerners think they have sex with their clients, but the true geisha do not.”  
  
         “What do they do then?” Paul asked, exposing his ignorance, but in his typical unapologetic way.  
  
         “They are artists.  They do traditional dance and music, they entertain men with educated conversation, and the tea service itself is an art.  You’ll see.”  
  
         And they _had_ seen.   Afterwards they’d gone for sushi in a tucked away restaurant located in a basement in a downtown alleyway where only natives went.  “Yoko showed me this one,” John told Paul.  “They usually call me ‘Mr. Ono’ when I go there.”  Paul chuckled along with John at that.  Thankfully, in the event, no such thing happened.  
  
         Both Tokyo concerts had been outrageous successes, and John and Paul had bounded off stage filled with energy and excitement.  And now they were racing through the night to their private airplane, tucked in the back of a limousine that had left the arena area before any of the audience was able to leave.  
  
         By the time they rolled up on the tarmac to the waiting private jet, both men felt some exhaustion setting in from the last 24 days and 11 concerts, during which they had traveled thousands of miles.  They were looking forward to their brief rest in Hawaii, where they were staying at George and Olivia Harrison’s luxury home on Maui, right on a bluff overlooking the ocean.  Linda and the kids were already there, having enjoyed a couple of days’ vacation while awaiting Paul’s arrival.  
  
         This time Paul had given John plenty of warning about the family visit, and John thought it was kind of cute the number of times Paul reminded him about it.  It wasn’t really necessary this time, because John and Linda had made their peace, and John had decided he was going to behave like a normal human being this time around.  He wanted Paul to have a good time with his family, and he knew that would not happen unless he – John – sucked it up and hung out with the family, so that Paul would know where he was all the time.   In any case, George would be there, too, so he would have someone to talk to when Paul and Linda were alone together.  
  
         John smiled to himself, because he had finally figured out that Paul did get nervous and – who knew? – _jealous_ when he didn’t know where John was.  Perhaps those notes Paul left behind for John about his whereabouts had been more about Paul projecting on to John his own insecurity.  (Of course, John had always appreciated the notes.  He probably would have gone bananas if he _didn’t_ know where Paul had disappeared to, but he was pissed off on that particular day when he’d said yet another thing he wished he could take back.  As a result, Paul _never_ left notes when he disappeared from the suite anymore, and John was trying to work up the nerve to tell him he much preferred it when Paul left the notes.)    
  
  


*****

  
  
  
         “I know you were late to the party,” Linda said softly, as she and Olivia sat in the kitchen after dinner on the night of Linda’s first evening in Hawaii.  “You’ve probably heard all about it from George.”  
  
         Olivia knew immediately what Linda meant by “it.”  She nodded and chuckled, but it was a sympathetic chuckle.  “I was lucky enough to come along after the worst of it was over,” she said.  “But George hasn’t spoken that much about it at all.  He isn’t the type to do that.”  
  
         Linda had never really gotten to know George that well.  By late 1968 when Paul was introducing her to his friends, George had pretty much retracted himself into his own circle of friends, and rarely left his home.  She had only really known George through his conduct in the studio (which had seemed sullen and distant to Linda) and then through his lawyers after “it” had all gone wrong.  It didn’t surprise her, though, that George was insular and non-communicative about unpleasant matters.  Paul suffered from the same disorder.  
  
         “Do you want to know?” Linda asked softly.  
  
         “I would, actually,” Olivia said back.  “Not that I’ll do anything with the information.  It just may help me understand George’s moods better.”  
  
         Linda was quickly becoming very fond of Olivia.  Olivia was a real person - a mature one.  She wasn’t devious and self-adoring like Yoko, and she wasn’t immature and submissive, like Cynthia seemed to Linda.  She hadn’t known Ringo’s first wife Maureen very well, or George’s first wife Pattie, because those two marriages were imploding at the same time as John and Cynthia’s marriage was imploding, (not to mention John and Paul’s friendship).  “It” had hit them all like a giant earthquake, leaving schisms both seen and unseen running through all of their lives.  The second wives had been left to pick up all the pieces, and often without sufficient knowledge about the past to be of much help.  
  
         “I was pretty naïve when I first got involved with Paul,” Linda said.  “I hadn’t expected these guys to be so full of resentment and hostility towards each other, or that their lives would be so rife with turmoil.  But I had to get wise to it quick.  Things were happening at speed, and I needed to keep up with it all if I was going to be of any help to Paul.”   Linda poured herself another cup of hot American coffee.  A treat.  “Paul was having a nervous breakdown.  I didn’t realize it at the time, because I didn’t know what he was like before I met him, so I hadn’t known him when he was himself – you know, _together_.  But he was literally falling apart at the seams at the time I moved in with him.  He really depended on me to get him through all the change.”  
  
         “That must have been hard for you,” Olivia murmured.  
  
         Linda shrugged as if to say, ‘ _it is what it was_.’  “The way it looked to Paul and me was that they were all turning on him.  They were pushing him into a corner, and forcing things down his throat.  They had apparently gone from doing nothing and wanting to know nothing about the business, to overnight wanting to wrest it all away from him, and push him to the side.  I’m sure they have their side to it, and Paul can be a martinet, I know, but it was very hard on Paul.  He thought they were his friends; he thought they wouldn’t make important band decisions unless they all four agreed.  He told me that this was one of the oral promises they had made to each other, and in order to force things down on Paul that all three claimed that no such promise had ever been made.”  
  
         Olivia nodded sympathetically.  She noted the precise moment when Linda’s objective, calm narrative turned into a painful, more serious one.  
  
         “Ringo hurt him the most,” Linda finally whispered.  “Because it was Ringo who had insisted upon the unanimous decision rule, since he was so afraid of what had happened to Pete Best when he joined the group that he made them all promise they couldn’t do that to him.  For Ringo to claim they’d never made that promise hurt Paul the most.  He expected more of Ringo, I guess, than he had expected of the other two.”  
  
         This was new information to Olivia, who had always assumed John had hurt Paul the most.  
  
         “Years later, during the lawsuits, they were all asked to give depositions – testimony under oath.  And George and Ringo both followed the party line.  They both testified that there had been no such agreement about band management.  Any agreement they had was only about band _membership_.  And then John, in his deposition, admitted he had lied about it, and that there had been such an agreement, but he and the other two had unilaterally decided to ignore the oral agreement because they thought to do so was the best for the group.  This testimony blew their defense to smithereens, and made George and Ringo look like liars.  Did you know that was why George and John originally fell out?”  Linda was asking Olivia.  
  
         Olivia shook her head no.  
  
         “I don’t blame George,” Linda said softly.  “It had been John’s idea all along to lie about it, and Allen Klein was John and Yoko’s idea, and Paul turned out to be right about Klein, too, so both George and Ringo felt that they had been seduced by John to support him, and then he had turned around and made liars of them both, and killed their case to boot.  That had to hurt.”  
  
         “I always thought George and John fell out because John wouldn’t show up for his concert – the one in 1974 when he was struggling,” Olivia said.  
  
         “That I think – I don’t know, but I suppose – was the nail in the coffin, so to speak.  But before that, George had changed his mind about Klein, and countersued for damages against Klein, and he blamed John for the whole Klein fiasco.  I know this, because my brother was one of Paul’s lawyers, and I know what George’s lawyers said to my brother during the settlement discussions.”  
  
         Olivia nodded.  This all made sense.  
  
         “Still,” Linda said honestly, “I think George still loved John more than he ever loved Paul.”  Linda’s face was sad and heavy with the thought.  
  
         “Oh, why?”  Olivia asked.  
  
         “George wanted so much to be John’s partner, the way Paul had been.  He didn’t understand – at least I don’t think he did – what being John’s partner really entailed.  Paul had to swallow his ego, his dreams, and his ideas far more often than John ever had to swallow his.  Probably more than George had to swallow his, writing on his own, come to think of it.  And Paul had to put up with insults and putdowns in front of his friends, family, and the whole world, because that was how John tried to prove to everyone that he was number one.  And John made emotional demands on Paul that would have sunk a lesser man – a man with less emotional strength.”  
  
         Olivia barely knew John.  She had only met him that one time in the London townhouse.  This made Olivia blush.  She remembered the circumstances of that visit, and for a moment it was hard for her to meet Linda’s eyes.  George had told her that Linda was aware of the arrangement between John and Paul.  If so, the woman had to be a saint!  
  
         “You must have mixed feelings about the two of them working together again, then,” Olivia said.  
  
         Linda laughed, and it was an ironic laugh, bordering on bitter.  “Yeah.  _Mixed_.”  She was silent for a moment and then seemed to realize the impression she must have left.  “My problem is, I can’t stop worrying that John is going to pull the rug out from underneath Paul again, and I’ll be left collecting up the pieces again.  I don’t know if he could go through that a second time.  Or if I could.”  
  
         Olivia was trying to drum up the courage to say what she most wanted to say.  _Was this the right time_?  It occurred to her there would never be a better one.  “How do you _really_ feel about their relationship?” she asked in a soft whisper.  
  
         “There’s no stopping it,” Linda said frankly.  “It has a life of its own.  I’d only get mowed down if I stood in the way.”  
  
         “But you don’t want to leave him?”  
  
         “Paul and I have had our rough moments, don’t get me wrong.  But we’re a family.  We both love our children, and we want them to have both of us, and both of us _together_.  And,” Linda added a little more reluctantly, “if I thought I could find another man I could love more than Paul, I might leave him despite the children.  But I don’t believe I will find that other man, so I hold on to what I can keep.  But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt sometimes.”  
  
         Olivia couldn’t imagine sharing George with another man.  However – on the other hand - she herself knew about all of George’s other women, and she had decided she would stay with him despite his constant cheating and how much that hurt her, so she supposed she and Linda were not that different after all.  They loved the men in their lives more than they needed fidelity out of them.  Olivia decided to back away from this most sensitive topic.  She returned to an earlier one.  
  
         “I don’t know if I agree with you that George loves John more than he ever loved Paul, though,” she said.  
  
         Linda looked up in surprise.  “Why do you think not?”  
       
         “Because George told me himself that Paul was like a brother – they made each other crazy, and maybe they weren’t the best of friends any more, but he always knew that Paul would love him.  He never knew if John did, and he worries that John doesn’t.”  
  
         Linda thought about what Olivia said, and then sighed loudly.  “These idiot men!  Why can’t they just tell each other how they feel instead of playing all these _stupid_ games?”  
  
         Olivia laughed easily.  “Because that’s what men generally do, I guess,” she said, “ - play stupid games.”  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      The Hawaii sunset was so spectacular it nearly burned the eyes.  John was standing on the lanai, staring out towards the sea and taking in the glorious reds, pinks, oranges, yellows, blues and purples of the sky.  Just above the sunset was a sky so dark a sapphire blue that the little pinpoints of searing white light that connoted the stars could be seen clearly, as if the whole had been painted above the lower sky by a stage set designer.  
  
         “I never get used to how beautiful it is.”  
  
         At this pronouncement, John turned suddenly to find that George had slipped in quietly beside him.  John and Paul had arrived at George’s estate a few hours earlier, they had all had dinner, and now Paul and Linda were off somewhere whispering sweet nothings to each other, John supposed.  In the dark he could make out George’s silhouette.  
  
         “This is a beautiful place, George,” John said simply, turning around and leaning against the railing.  He crossed his arms and faced in George’s direction.  His eyes were adjusting to the dark and he was just beginning to see the features of George’s face taking some kind of shape. George smiled, and John saw the gleam of teeth, and smiled back.  
  
         “How is the tour coming?” George asked awkwardly.  He’d already asked them both that question at dinner, but John pretended not to notice.  
  
         “We just have North America left,” John said.  “Twenty-eight more gigs.”  
  
         “ _Twenty-eight?!”_ George’s voice reflected his shock.  
  
         “Yeah, and we already finished 41.”  John thought for a moment of the next three months ahead of them, and how exhausting this was going to be.   He usually tried not to think about it, because it always seemed so daunting.  Better to take it one gig at a time.  
  
         “ _Good lord_!  Why did you let Paul talk you into it?”  George had automatically decided the over-the-top tour was Paul’s idea.  Wasn’t that sort of thing _always_ Paul’s idea?  
  
         John found himself feeling a little defensive on Paul’s behalf.  “I wanted to tour, too,” was all he said, but George could tell by the slight edge in his voice that John was back in that place again – that place where no one else but John himself was allowed to say or even _imply_ a bad thing about Paul.  
  
         George tried again.  “What are your plans for when the tour is over?”  
  
         John brightened up.  “I’m working on our new house.  Did you know Paul and I bought one right behind Cavendish?”  
  
         George was astounded by this information.  “Right next to _Linda_?”  The sound of scandal lingered in the air even as George’s actual voice faded out.  
  
         “George, Linda knows all about it.  I _told_ you.  We don’t keep secrets from her.”  John’s voice was a bit patronizing.  
  
         George recognized that tone, and gritted his teeth in an attempt to not respond in kind.  “Are you _sure_ she’s okay with it?”  Try as he might, George could not keep the incredulity out of his voice.  
  
         “ _George_ ,” John said.  The tone told George that John was done with that particular topic.  “Anyway, I’ve overseen major reconstruction, and I’ve been working on the interior designs.  I’m looking forward to seeing it all come together, and living there finally.  I’m hoping it will be ready shortly after the tour is over.”  
  
         George felt lost.  He didn’t know this John Lennon:  a John Lennon who was more interested in home decorating than he was in drug paraphernalia and radical politics.   Of course, George had never approved of either the heroin or the radical politics, but that was beside the point.  George remained silent for an uncomfortable amount of time, until John relented.  
  
         “Are you still really having that much trouble accepting me and Paul, Geo?”  John’s voice sounded more like the old John to George:  the John who was generous to a fault, and knew how to make a person feel better with just a few well-chosen words.  
  
         George thought before speaking.  This had always been one of his better qualities, except when it failed.  “I think I am, yes,” George finally admitted with frank honesty.  This was another one of his better qualities, except when he went too far.  
  
         John waited silently for more.  He knew George well enough to know that if he had more to say, he would say it, but in his own good time.  
  
         Finally, George continued.  “I can’t wrap my head around it.  I can’t believe I never noticed it.”  
  
         John understood George’s feelings, even if he was a bit exasperated that George hadn’t gotten over them by now.  It had been over a year after all since he found out!   “We were good at hiding it George,” John said, not sure if he had already told George this, but willing to say it again.  Maybe this time it would sink in.  “It was more than our lives were worth for people to find out.”  
  
         _People!  That_ was what was bothering George!  He suddenly realized it.  “I’m not just _anybody_ , John, I was supposed to be your closest friend!  Why did you and Paul lie to _me_?”  
  
         John decided to just lay it out there, and go for broke.  “George, you were _disgusted_ by homosexuality.  You made it very clear.  Do you remember how you made Brian wait outside the dressing room until you were fully dressed?  Do you remember the comments you made about it in my hearing, and in Paul’s?  Why on earth would we trust you with this information, knowing how you felt about it?”  
  
         George was nonplussed.  “You made queer jokes too,” he said weakly to John.  
  
         “ _I_ did it out of fear and insecurity, but _you_ did it because you really _felt_ that way.”  John hadn’t realized until that moment how much he had resented the things that George had said and done related to the subject.  He had buried it so deep that he had never realized how much it had hurt.  Could this be a reason why John had never allowed George to get really close to him emotionally?  Was _that_ the barrier that actually laid between them, rather than some hoary old lawsuit or a dispute over band management?  
  
         “I was young and ignorant,” George finally admitted.  “I didn’t understand it.  But if you had told me, I would have come to accept it.  You two were very important to me, and we were _tight_.”  
  
         John softened, and thought for the first time that he might actually be able to fully forgive George for being so inadvertently hurtful for so many years.  “But perhaps you can understand why Paul and I were afraid to test that theory?”  John’s eyes were beseeching George’s, and George blinked first.  
  
         “Yeah, I guess so, when you explain it that way.  It seems like a terrible shame, though.  That you had to lie about it, and that I never was allowed to learn about it.”  
  
         The silence between them this time was comfortable.  They both turned back to the sky.  By now the colors had faded down to a yellow gold line that hovered just above the horizon, with the rest of the sky getting progressively blacker the further away from the horizon it raised.  The day was over, and it wouldn’t be long before the sun rose again.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      Paul and Linda left the kids with Olivia, George and John, to go on a road trip to Hana by themselves.  They were going to stay in a hotel for a few days, just to be alone.  Paul had already broken the news to John, pointing out that his relationship with Linda desperately needed some alone time and dedicated attention, and John was in no position to argue.  At least he had people around him and things to do in Paul’s absence.  And he was actually enthusiastic about rebuilding some kind of friendship with George again.  
  
         Once they were alone in the car, Paul and Linda both felt rejuvenated.  It reminded them each, independently, of how they would just jump into a car and take off driving, back in the late ‘60s when things at Apple were getting too intense.  Paul had wanted to book rooms in the nicest hotel Hana had to offer, but Linda wanted to play everything by ear.  “We’ll find a place to land,” she said reassuringly, just as she had done back in 1968 and 1969.  And so they did.  
  
         The road to Hana was a single lane two-way highway that perched somewhat precariously along the edge of the mountain ridge that encircled the north end of Maui.  As they drove deeper into the jungle, they stopped frequently to visit waterfalls and tropical gardens along the way, and were amazed to find huge fruits just laying, rotting, on the roadway.  All kinds: oranges, lemons, limes, grapefruit, mangos, pomegranates, peaches, apricots, bananas… It was like a neglected nirvana.  The fruit had fallen off the myriad of trees that lined the roads, growing naturally and carelessly in the moist but warm Hawaiian air.  Someone at sometime must have planted them, or the seeds may have blown towards the coast from inland orchards, but now the plantings were free and wild.  It gave the whole trip a kind of Dali feel.  
  
         The point of taking the road to Hana was to end up at the famous Falls of Waikahiku on the western coast of Maui – a continuous thread of seven large waterfalls, each more spectacular than the next, that ran from the highest tip of Maui down to the ocean, and at each waterfall’s end was a luscious pool suitable for swimming.  Paul and Linda had taken the children there years earlier, and had memories of whining children being dragged halfway up to the great waterfall at the top – Waimuko Falls - but having to stop at the great bamboo forest and turn back because the younger children were tired.  _This_ time Paul and Linda intended to hike the full 1 and 1/6 miles hike up the Pipiwa Trail to Waimuko, and, along the way, spend time swimming in some of those hidden pools.  
  
         Of course, due to the state of the road and the many stops along the 52-mile highway, it took a very long time to get all the way to the outskirts of Hana town.   There they found a modest little place to stay  - a bed and breakfast that was surrounded by bamboo, with a lovely view of a black sand beach.  It was more of a motel than an inn, but it had a kind of obscure charm that appealed to Paul and Linda’s down-to-earth sensibilities.  (Or at least, these were Paul’s sensibilities when he was with Linda.)  Hand in hand, and barefoot, they walked the adjacent black sand beach as the evening deepened.  
  
         “This is like heaven,” Linda finally said softly, squeezing Paul’s hand.  “It’s been too long since we’ve been away alone together.”  
  
         Paul squeezed her hand back and said, “We always hate to be separated from the kids.”  It was a fair explanation for why they had left it so long.  
  
         Linda giggled.  “I have to say leaving them behind with John worried me a little.  I wouldn’t have been able to do it if Olivia wasn’t there.”  
  
         Paul laughed out loud.  “Yeah, otherwise we’d come back and find the house a cinder, and the kids selling puka shell necklaces out of the boot of a car.”   Linda laughed, too, and felt a wonderful spirit of lightness filling her.  Perhaps it wasn’t too late.  Perhaps this latest shadow over the marriage was just a cloud passing across the sun, and there was still warmth and light left in her marriage after all.  She had every intention of working hard to make that a sure thing.  
  
         They ate dinner at a restaurant in Hana town proper, and then went back to their room to share some of the excellent pot that Linda had brought with her.  This led, as it always did, to a long night of passionate sex, and – less characteristically – a late sleep-in the next morning.  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
    
         John and Olivia were lounging with Mary and Stella in the large great room of the Harrison house.  George had been tired and had turned in early, and Sean, James and the Harrison’s son, Dhani, were off somewhere goofing around.   Earlier, during the day, the three of them had formed a kind of guerilla gang, and were pretended to fight off invading armies from behind and between the lush tropical growth.  Who knows what they were up to now?  It didn’t worry John.  The irony of miniature John, Paul and Georges forming a gang and taking on the world somehow escaped him at the moment.  
  
         “I now know how Paul feels when he’s at home with you and your mother – one man surrounded by beautiful women.”  John was looking at Mary and Stella when he spoke.  
  
         The women all laughed, although Stella’s was more of a sarcastic chortle.  “ _Flatterer_ ,” she accused from across the room.  
  
         “I can hardly be expected to compete with it, however,” John pointed out mischievously.  Olivia was a little surprised he had said that in front of Paul’s daughters, but they didn’t seem to be the least bit put out by it.  
  
         “You’re so full of it, John,” Stella responded pertly.  “You know you’re usually the center of attention in any room you’re occupying.”  
  
         “What do you mean ‘ _usually’_?”  John snorted with pretended offense.  His audience laughed at him again.  
  
         “Anyway, I’m glad mum and dad have this time to themselves,” Mary said sweetly.  “They deserve it.  They ought to do it more often.”  Mary was looking at John as she said this, and there was a subtext there that Olivia didn’t quite catch, although she knew there _was_ a subtext.  
  
         John had the good sense to look ashamed.  “I know, I know, I’m a selfish bastard,” he admitted.  “But your mum’s not mad at me anymore, so what’s _your_ problem?”  John’s tone was playful, and he obviously meant well.  
  
         Mary responded in kind.  “Just making the point that a thing has to remain in balance if it isn’t to collapse down on one side or the other.”  
  
         John’s return glance was sharp.  Mary was no idiot.  She had given John a warning:  _let my parents be my parents.  You have your place in our family, but they have theirs._  
  
         John forced a smile on to his face, and raised his wine glass towards hers in a kind of toast, but to himself he was thinking, _these McCartneys sure stick together, and it would pay me to remember that_.  
  
         Olivia knew something important had happened, but she had not a clue what it was.  The whole ménage was fascinating, and she couldn’t help feeling deeply curious about it all.  Fat lot of good it would do her though; it didn’t appear as though anyone was going to explain it to her any time soon.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      The hike up to the waterfall had been fun rather than arduous.  The little offshoot trails that led to the lower waterfalls had given them hours of fun.  Linda had made it through about 12 rolls of film already before they finally reached the magnificent Waimuko Falls.  The water fell from a height of – oh, at least nine or ten stories high – and it created a shower as it hit the shale at the bottom.  The water flew back off the shale after hitting it, creating a mist that blew outwards for several yards.  The water was only a foot or so deep at this point, because most of it went on to leech out to the lowest point – the next waterfall – and thus down, eventually, to the sea.  Paul and Linda splashed through the foot-deep pool to the bottom of the waterfall, and stood underneath it as it plunged down on them.  It was sensual and exhilerating, and it refreshed them, washing all the sweat and dirt from the climb off them in one fell swoop.  
  
         The hike down the mountain seemed to take far less time.  Why that was so, neither of them knew, but it seemed to be the way of things generally.  The anticipation of the arrival seemed to elongate the time, whereas the knowledge of the terrain on the way down seemed to shorten it.  At the bottom falls they both joined other tourists in jumping off cliffs to the pools eight to ten feet below them, and enjoyed watching the last waterfall washing the water into the sea.  It was gorgeous and life affirming, and they held each other in the water, kissing each other repeatedly, and not caring if other people saw them.  They had noticed tourists taking clandestine photos of them all day long, but they had decided to ignore it, and pretend like they were normal people, and they knew that the worst that would happen is that photos of them being in love would be splashed across the world’s tabloids.  That didn’t seem like a bad thing at all to either of them.   Paul did have a twinge or two, thinking that it would never be that way for John and him.  He and John would _never_ be able to indulge in public displays of affection like this.  But soon he banished that thought, determined to enjoy Linda 100% and not to worry about tomorrow.  Lord knows tomorrow with all of its wrinkles and pimples would come, and when it did, Paul knew that he would be ready for it.  
  
         But for the time being, he was going to be openly in love with his wife.


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul face American audiences and the American press, and meet up with two old friends in New York.

   The Toronto and Quebec concerts had gone off very well, and John and Paul were riding a high as they flew across the U.S. boundary on their way to Boston for their second U.S. gig.  The first had been in Honolulu, and the press had been excited to find George Harrison and his wife and son in the audience, and the three ex-Beatles had obliged the press corps with a photo opportunity backstage after the concert.   Both John and Paul had had some moments alone with George during their week off in Maui, and the three men, in their tortured, indirect, frustratingly oblique ways had found ways to tear down some of the walls that had built up around them.  It had been emotionally cleansing, as had been Paul’s time alone with Linda, so it was two refreshed men who had started on the ambitious last leg of their world tour, 28 gigs in the three separate countries that comprised North America.    
  
      They had a few interviews with local radio and television, and both men braced for what they knew would be some intrusive questions.  They had limited each interview to 15 minutes in an attempt to cut off too many unwanted questions.  They had also had their press agents warn the reporters not to ask personal questions.  Like that was gonna work.    
  
      The first interview was with the local CBS-affiliated station, and thankfully the young female reporter was not that well versed on either the Beatles, or John and Paul.  When her girlish voice started asking them about how the tour was going, the two men exchanged a brief look of relief.  She was easy-peasy.  They both turned towards her, and poured on the charm.   She was a goner, and when it was over she couldn’t remember a single question she had asked, or answer they had given.  The show editor was disgusted with the results, and pieced together a 45-second piece that almost didn’t embarrass him.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      The radio interview was racier.  The disc jockey was a “shock jock”, and was trying to be provocative.  
  
      “So tell us the truth – do you two ‘ _get it on’_ when nobody is looking?”  He asked gleefully, obviously expecting his guests to collapse in embarrassed silence.  No such luck.  
  
      “What would be the fun in that?” John asked lazily.  “If we were gonna get it on, we’d want people looking, right Paul?”  
  
      “That would certainly be a lot more... _exciting_ ,” he responded, looking seriously at John, and taking his time to consider his response to the proposition, as if it were a business proposal.    
  
      The DJ sat there, momentarily not sure what to say next.  That had not gone the way he expected.  Oh well, he’d better play along.  
  
      “I can get an audience together – we have one right here in fact!”  (Everything he said sounded as though it had an exclamation point at the end of it.)  
  
      “Yeah, but you’ve spoiled the mood now,” John pointed out reasonably.  “These things are so ephemeral.”  
  
      The DJ didn’t know what “ephemeral” meant, so he didn’t dare respond.    
  
      Paul piped up.  “Hey, does anyone want to talk about our concert tonight?”  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      The next interviewer was for the NBC affiliate.  The reporter was groomed to within an inch of his life, and appeared to be more interested in how he looked than the people he was supposed to interview.  But then he saw Paul sitting there in all his glory, and he was suffused with warmth.  He blushed.  The reporter was gay.  John figured this out almost instantly, although Paul, of course, was clueless.  Paul just thought the man was being silly with him, and didn’t realize it was flirting.    
  
      “It’s been years since you’ve been in Boston, right?” The man asked, leering at Paul.  John wanted to smack him in his face.  
  
      “Yeah,” John said in a flat, bored voice.  “ _Years_.”    
  
      “How about you, Paul?  How long has it been for you?”  The reporter actually fluttered his eyelashes.  John wanted to hit him over the head with a 2 by 4.  
  
      “Gee – it was with Wings in 1976, I think?  Over ten years, anyway,” Paul’s response appeared genuine, as did his uncomplicated smile.    
  
      _Poor boy.  He’s so oblivious_ , John thought.  
  
      “Why have you stayed away so long?” The man asked, winking at Paul the moment the camera was off him.  Paul saw the wink, but didn’t know what to make of it.  He gave a vague smile in response.  
  
      “It has been a long time,” Paul admitted, wondering if this interview was ever going to get to the point.  
  
      _Yoo hoo_ , John thought, sending angry thought waves in the direction of the reporter, _I’m here too shithead!_  
  
      “But we’re glad to be in Boston _now_ , aren’t we, John?” Paul asked.  John snapped out of his angry reverie.  
  
      “Yes, Paul, we are,” he pushed is face into the camera lens and presented it with a wide, shit-faced grin.  
  
      The reporter was chuckling nervously.  He had obviously lost control.  
  
      “So, John, what do you think about the concert tonight?” Paul asked, holding up an empty fist as if it were a microphone, and turning to John as if he were the reporter.  
  
      “Well, Paul, I think it is going to be 3 hours of fun.  That’s what I think,” John said, speaking into the imaginary microphone while winking and mugging periodically.  
  
      “Yes, folks, that’s what we have planned for the audience tonight – 3 hours of fun!” Paul concluded, and now _he_ was staring into the lens with an insincere smile.    
  
      The reporter tried to regain control, but the producer indicated a cut, and the camera stopped.    
  
      “Real interesting interview,” John said to the reporter snidely, as he and Paul got up from their stools and walked off set.  The cameraman and soundman were trying not to laugh out loud.  The reporter was an asshole anyway.  They’d have quite the story to tell around the craft table later.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      “Well, those were some _pathetic_ interviews,” John announced, as he plopped himself down on to one of the plush sofas in their hotel suite.  “At least in the old days they would occasionally ask a relevant question.”     
  
      “They were just as inane back in the day,” Paul said in response.  “There were just more of ‘em all talking at once.  I’m just glad they’re over for the day.”   
  
      Paul sat down next to John, and wiggled himself closer to John until there was no light between them.  John smiled, shook his head, and put his arm around Paul’s shoulders, and Paul laid his head on John’s shoulder.  “I could just sit here forever,” Paul said, a contented smile on his face.  
  
      “Yeah, right,” John chuckled.  “You couldn’t sit still for longer than 15 minutes at a time if your life depended on it.”  
  
      “Is that what you want from me?  To ‘sit still’?”  Paul’s voice was taunting, but in a very sexy way.  
  
      John really didn’t need to say anything to a goad like that.  Action was what was called for.   He pushed Paul back against the sofa cushions.  
  
      “Hey!” Paul laughed in mock alarm.  “I was sitting _still_!”  
  
      John climbed on top of him and had the two sides of Paul’s face in his two hands.  He gave Paul a big, sloppy smack on his lips, and Paul was laughing.  He wiped the wetness off his mouth with the back of one hand.  “ _Gross_ ,” Paul managed to say between giggles.  John was tickling him on his left side.  That was the most ticklish part of Paul’s body, and trust John to have figured that out and used it constantly against him.   “ _Stop!  Stop_!”  Paul was squirming to avoid the tickling and giggling because of the tickling, and felt really stupid doing either of those things at his great age.    
  
      “You don’t really want me to stop,” John whispered in Paul’s ear, using a raw voice.  John began kissing Paul again, only now the kisses were serious and edged with fire.  John felt Paul relaxing in his arms; the squirming and giggling had ended, and now Paul’s arms were around his shoulders, and his legs had moved to cradle John’s hips.  This, in turn, increased the heat simmering under John’s passion.  The passion went on for several minutes, before Paul seemed to come to his senses.  
  
      “John – we’ve got a… show,” he managed to say in between John’s assaults on his lips.  “Sound…check…what time is it?”  Paul was struggling to get loose, and his legs had dropped down to the cushions, and he was trying to pull himself free from John’s grasp.      
  
      John was frustrated.  Fuck the show!  And fuck sound check!  No – wait – fuck _Paul!_ John redoubled his efforts.  His hand was fighting with the button and zipper of Paul’s trousers, as Paul continued to struggle to get loose.    
  
      “John, _no_!” Paul was laughing, but he was a bit irritated now, because he was worried about the time.  “Wait!  Just let me know the time!”    
  
      Frustrated, John sat up, letting Paul loose.  Paul jumped up and went looking for a clock.  John remained sitting on the sofa, staring at his greatly engorged cock inside his trousers and feeling misused.     
  
      On one level Paul knew John was frustrated, and the truth was Paul was frustrated too.  But on the higher level, work came before play in Paul’s book.  What’s more, Paul vividly remembered the night they’d had sex before a show, and both of them had dragged through the concert as if they were in the last hour of a dance marathon.  The audience deserved better than that, and so sexual satisfaction would have to wait until after the show.  That is, if John wasn’t so pissed off at him that he wouldn’t be willing!  Paul laughed at himself for that thought.  Yeah, right.  John wasn’t a bird.  He wasn’t going to roll up in the fetal position and refuse to have sex because his feelings were hurt.  He was a bloke, and it would take only the slightest amount of encouragement, and John would be all over him like a bad suit.  Paul shook his head, his face expressing a fond smile.  _Ya gotta love John_.  
  
  
  


*****

  
       
  
      They landed at JFK at 2 a.m., and John felt a flush of excitement to be back on his old stomping grounds again.  They were going to stay in their loft across the street from Central Park.  The maids would have cleared away the cobwebs and aired it out by now.   They had two concerts in New York at Shea Stadium, and they planned to spend a week in the City and take a short break from the breakneck pace of touring.  It would be a relief to be sheltered in a home of their own, with no nosy maids or porters.  Just the two of them, alone in their own home.    
  
      The next morning they rose relatively early and Paul scratched around in the kitchen (which had been stocked for their arrival) thinking about what to make for breakfast.  John straggled in, naked under his robe, and happened to walk into the kitchen area while Paul’s ass was sticking out of the refrigerator.  Paul had heard him come in.``  
  
      “What do you want for breakfast, John?”  
  
      “That’s a very dangerous question to ask me when you’re in that position, luv.”   
  
      “Ha, ha, ha,” Paul responded, straightening up and arching his left eyebrow.  “That might worry me if it wasn’t for the fact that you’ve already shot your wad this morning.”    
  
      John chuckled.  Paul was right, but there was no need to admit it.  “Who says I only have one wad?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.  
  
      “Scrambled eggs?” Paul asked, apropos of nothing.  
  
      “Sounds good,” John responded, following the jerky conversation with ease.  He sat down at the table, waiting patiently for Paul to finish making their breakfast.  As he sat there he had a thought, and jumped up to grab the phone.  “I’m calling Jason,” John told Paul.  “Let’s hang out with them this evening.”  
  
      Paul smiled and nodded, and then returned his attention to the sauté pan.    
  
      The phone rang three times before a breathless voice answered.  John smiled into the phone, because Jason seemed always to be in a rush.    
  
      “Hello?” The voice asked.  
  
      “Jason – it’s John – John Lennon.”  
  
      “I know which John it is, _John_ ,” Jason said jokingly.  “I recognized your voice, and I saw on the news that you’re in town for your concerts.”  
  
      “You spoil my surprise,” John groused, but Jason only laughed at him.  
  
      “When are we going to see you?” Jason asked excitedly.  John could hear sounds coming down the line that indicated that Jason was busy doing something in the kitchen.  Like Paul, Jason tended to do two or three things at a time, and John felt a strong sense of affection for his friend Jason in that moment.  
  
      “Let’s meet up this evening,” John suggested, his voice suffused with enthusiasm.  “Then we can have dinner together, and then come back to the loft and sit around and shoot the breeze for as long as we like.  How does that sound?”    
  
      “We’re up for it,” Jason said, “But why don’t I bring some groceries over, and I’ll cook you dinner.  Much better than going out and having the paps all over us.”  
  
      John laughed.  _Paps_.   Jason had experienced one run in with the paparazzi, and now he was a world-weary expert on them.  “That sounds wonderful, Jason,” John said sweetly.  “We’ve been eating restaurant and hotel food and a home cooked meal sounds just about right.”  
  
  


*****

  
  
       
      “So.  Tell me all!”  Jason’s face was alive with fun and mischief as he snuggled into the corner of a sofa, his face resting on the palm of his hand, and his eyes looking intently at John, who was seated next to him in a chair nearby.   Paul was washing up the dishes, and Gerry was helping.  It was only fair, because Jason and John had cooked the dinner.  John and Jason had exchanged amused glances as their partners began collecting up dirty dishes, automatically breaking into the roles of rinsing and stacking.  Jason had joked softly, “We have well trained husbands, don’t we?”  And John had laughed out loud.  
  
      Now Jason was waiting for the scoop.  John knew exactly what he wanted to talk about before Paul and Gerry joined them.  “We met some friends of yours when we were in South America,” John said.  
  
      “Oh really?  Who?”  Jason was astounded, and that didn’t happen very often.  
  
      John looked over his shoulder to make sure that Paul wasn’t listening.  “Rob and Wes.”    
  
      “ _Rob and Wes_!” Jason shouted out loudly, making John wince.  The sound of a smashed glass from the kitchen caused everyone to jump.    
  
      “Sorry,” Paul said.  He had dropped a glass at Jason’s loud mention of Rob and Wes.  
  
      “What’s this about Rob and Wes?” Gerry asked, bending down to help Paul clean up the shards of glass.  
  
      Jason was embarrassed about his outburst, and felt he owed it to John to settle everything down.  “John and Paul met them while in South America.  Do tell all,” Jason added quickly to John, lowering his voice.  
  
      In the kitchen, Paul and Gerry’s eyes met with simultaneous exasperation, and then they laughed at each other’s expressions.  “They act like we’re not even here!” Paul exclaimed, and Gerry remarked,  
  
      “Welcome to my world.”    
  
      “We were in Argentina, I think, in a resort area, and they came up to us at the bar,” John was speaking in a hushed voice.  “It was Rob who spoke first.”  
  
      “It _would_ be,” said Jason.  
  
      John took in Jason’s remark, and then continued.  “We invited them to have dinner with us.”  
  
      “Wes is very charming, and Rob is very brilliant,” Jason said.  “Neither one of them is very deep, though.”  
  
      John considered Jason’s remark, and agreed with him. “I thought they would be more interesting than they turned out to be.”  
  
      “Gerry and Rob are very close; I am not as into them as Gerry is.  It’s all that legal and finance crap.  I think Gerry gets frustrated because most of our friends are literate and into culture, and so Rob is kind of a kindred spirit to him.”  
  
      “I can see that,” John said carefully.  “Anyway, that first night we liked them, so we invited them for brunch, but at brunch it was weird.”  
  
      “How so?” Jason asked, his curiosity literally sparking out of his eyes.  
  
      “Rob was flirting openly with Paul – right in front of me and Wes - and Wes was seething with jealousy.”  
  
      “ _No!_ ”  Jason’s eyes were alive with delight.  He absolutely _loved_ gossip.  Especially _salacious_ gossip!    
  
      “They also came to our concert in Sao Paulo, Brazil,” John continued, enjoying Jason’s intense attention.  “And before the show, they were backstage, and Rob was fawning all over Paul, adjusting his collar, bringing him water.  I wanted to fucking smack him!”    
  
      Jason’s hand went over his mouth as his eyes opened wide with delighted dismay.  “You know years ago he had an affair and left Wes for awhile…”  
  
      “Yes, Wes told me, and he told me this ‘affair’ was very like Paul,” John sneered.  
  
      Jason gasped.  This was a detail he hadn’t known.  “What did Paul think of Rob?” Jason asked.  He never missed the salient point.  
  
      “Paul isn’t interested in men, sexually,” John said in a comfortable voice.  “I wasn’t really worried about that, I just thought it was disrespectful of Rob to flirt with Paul right in front of me and Wes.”    
  
      “Well, Rob is a river that runs deep, I’ll have to say that.  I can see why he is fascinated by Paul, though.”  
  
      “Oh?”  John asked.  For a moment he was insulted that it was Paul who Rob fancied, and even more insulted that Jason understood why.    
  
      Jason saw John’s expression and grinned.  “John, you’re enchanting, of course you are.  But no one person is the be all and end all for _everyone._ Paul is enchanting in his own way, and because he is well versed in finance and business, I can see why Rob would be intrigued.  Paul is a beauty with brains.  Who wouldn’t be attracted to that?  Certainly I shouldn’t have to explain this to _you_.”    
  
      John relaxed, and was even able to laugh at himself.  “Yeah, I’m used to it, really.  I’ve been beating them all off with sticks for decades.”    
  
      Jason was quiet for a moment.   “You’re sure that Paul isn’t interested too?”  Jason knew that Rob was fiercely attractive; he always seemed to Jason to look and act just like a hero in one of those old gothic novels, like _Jane Eyre_.  Mr. Rochester.  
  
      John cocked his head to one side.  “Yes, I’m sure.  Why do you ask?”  That insecurity that niggled inside him was beginning to perk up.  
  
      “No reason.  It’s just that Rob is rather a formidable person when he turns his charm on.  He’s not attracted to me; never has been.  But I’ve seen him turn his charm on others, and I wouldn’t take it lightly if I were you.”    
  
      John laughed, and he wondered if the laugh sounded as hollow to Jason as it had sounded to his own ears.  “Paul will never run off with another man.  He might be vulnerable to a woman, but Linda and I have him covered on both ends, so he hasn’t got a chance.”    
  
      “ _Who_ hasn’t got a chance?” Paul asked, as he and Gerry joined them in the sitting area.  Paul plopped down in the other armchair, and Gerry sat down next to Jason on the sofa.  
  
      “None of your business, son!” John said, mimicking an old English nanny.    
  
      Paul turned to Gerry and said, “I never get let in on the fun bits.  He treats me like a child.”    
  
      Gerry laughed in spite of himself.  Somehow, this evening, he had seen a Paul that he hadn’t allowed himself to see before:  a kind of kindred spirit, who also had the long-suffering honor of loving and living with a larger-than-life partner.  Paul certainly did have charm, and Gerry was finding he was not immune to it.  In truth, he had _never_ been immune to it, but he hadn’t _trusted_ it until tonight.  Tonight he felt as though he and Paul could have a good friendship, and he hoped it would happen.    
  
      “So you met Rob and Wes,” Gerry said, facing John.  “What did you think of them?”  
  
      John was mindful of what Jason had told him – that Gerry and Rob were close, so he was careful with his words.  “We had a few entertaining experiences with them.”  
  
      Paul chortled loudly.  “John took a dislike to Rob,” he said, “and he thought Wes was a hang dog.”    
  
      “ _Really_?  You didn’t like _Rob_?” Gerry was directing his surprise at John, and John was silently cursing Paul for his clueless honesty.  
  
      “He and I didn’t quite hit it off,” John said smoothly.  “He liked Paul a lot, though.  They talked about – what were you talking about?”  John looked at Paul intensely, sending him signals to cool his jets.  
  
      Paul saw John’s expression, and modified his next remarks accordingly.  He turned to Gerry with a smile that begged for understanding.  “We were talking about investment strategies, and John wanted to kill himself.”    
  
      Everyone laughed, and Gerry again felt an affinity and affection for Paul.  He knew what it was like to be interested in a subject that made everyone else roll his eyes.  He and Paul actually had something in common, and he ought to have noticed it before now.  Thankfully, it was not too late to remedy the situation.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      The interview with the reporter for the CBS television news magazine, _60 Minutes_ , was just about to start.  John and Paul had arrived at the hotel room where the interview was to be conducted, and, with the makeup already heating up on their faces, they were introduced to Steve Kroft, the CBS reporter who had been assigned to interview them.  Kroft was not an airhead or a pretend shock jock.  He was an honest-to-god correspondent, who had spent time in war zones and had conducted hard-hitting interrogations of world leaders.  He had just joined the _60 Minutes_ list of regular correspondents, and John and Paul were absorbing, by osmosis developed through hard experience, the knowledge that this interviewer was not going to be the pushover type they’d met thus far on their travels while promoting this tour.    
  
      Kroft gave them a businesslike smile, and said, “It is an honor to meet you both.  Are you ready to roll?”    
  
      John and Paul both nodded, trying to reflect at least as much confidence as Kroft exuded.  They hoped that their press agent had made it very clear that they were not there to discuss their personal lives.  
  
      “This is the first time the two of you have toured America since 1966,” Kroft projected his voice as the interview started.  Kroft was clearly in charge, and it was doubtful that he would ever give up control.  John and Paul knew they would have to adjust their responses accordingly.  “…and America seems as much in love with you as it ever has been.   What changes do you notice between the America of 1966 and the America of today?”  
  
      John was pleasantly surprised with this unusual question.  It actually interested him.  “I lived in America for almost ten years, you know,” John said, “and so nothing much about it surprises me anymore.  But when we first got here in 1964 we noticed right away that there was this strange duality to America.”  
  
      “Duality?” Kroft repeated.  “How so?”  His face expressed an intelligent interest in the response, and John warmed to the subject.  
  
      “There is this side of America that is inexplicable to non-Americans.  It is the Puritan strain, the judgmental, overtly religious, overtly patriotic side, with no apparent sense of humor.  Then there is the other America.  That America has the most beguiling culture, and it is open, liberal, funny and idealistic.  The problem for visitors is figuring out which kind of American you’re dealing with at any given moment.  It is so easy to put your foot wrong, and piss everyone off.”  
  
      Kroft had expected Lennon to be the intelligent, articulate one, and he wasn’t disappointed.  Thus far McCartney had been sitting quietly, watching Lennon’s face, and saying nothing.  In his need to concentrate on his interview subject, Kroft didn’t see what the camera saw – that McCartney was deeply interested in what Lennon had to say, and was digesting the comments with all due seriousness.  
  
      “And is that what you still see about America?” Kroft asked Lennon.  
  
      “Well, actually, no,” John said, lowering his voice and leaning in towards Kroft in a blatant act of conversational seduction.  “Now I understand that both aspects of America exist in almost every American; the reaction you get depends on what buttons you push.  But that is what I love most about America - it’s contradictions, and it’s refusal to be what other people want it to be.  It reminds me of – well – me!”    
  
      Kroft laughed, and it was a genuine laugh.  He realized he needed to bring McCartney into the conversation, so he turned to him and said,  
  
      “You had a triumphant tour through America in 1976 with your group, Wings.  How is this trip different from that one, if there is a difference?”  
  
      “America is what made us world famous,” Paul said flatly.  “Until we made it in America, we were just famous.  But afterwards we were _world_ famous.  It was fame of an exponentially greater degree.  And American audiences are challenging and exhilarating.  They give so much more back to the performer than the performer gives to them.”  Paul stopped for a moment to correct his comment a bit.  “I think I should say that they are exhilarating to a performer who knows what he is doing.  If you sucked, performing in America would be a very painful experience.”  
  
      Kroft laughed another genuine laugh, surprised that McCartney was turning out to be interesting and articulate too.  It shouldn’t have surprised him.  Paul couldn’t have made it so far in the world without having his wits about him.   Kroft knew the next area of interrogation was not going to be as easy or pleasant as what had gone before, but as a journalist he was bound and required to ask the questions, however unpopular they would be to his interview subjects.  
       
      “There have been quite a few rumors over the last few years about your personal relationship,” he said to the two of them, taking care to insure that his face was devoid of any judgment or emotion.  Objectivity is what was required at moments like these.  “You denied them last year, but they persist.  Is this something that you still are denying?”  
  
      John was angry and trying to hide it.  He daren’t speak, because he could feel the sarcasm and nastiness rising in his throat.  Thankfully, Paul stepped in before John could speak.    
  
      “We really don’t believe that we should have to keep responding to those rumors,” Paul said calmly, with an apologetic smile on his face that somehow strained all the hostility out of the answer.  “It's a fun source of gossip for people to play with, and we get that, but we have families who are hurt by it, and so you’ll excuse us if we don’t think it is amusing.”  
  
      John had recovered his temper, and added in his inimitable way, “We hate to disappoint you all, but we’re really very conventional blokes in our private lives.”  
  
      “We are?” Paul asked, with a playfully surprised look.  
  
      “Well, _I_ am,” John said, turning to leer into the camera with an expression that clearly said, _there’s no accounting for him, though._          
  
  


*****

      
  
  
      The Shea Stadium experience circa 1989 was even more exhilarating than the one they’d had in 1966.  At least now the amplifiers worked, and the audience could hear the damn concert, and John and Paul could even hear each other.  This was their second of the two concerts in New York, and the concert was wending down.  It had been one of those nights when John and Paul and the band had all been on fire, and the songs had just flown by, providing one magical moment after the other for both the performers and the audience.  They had just finished slaying the audience with _Starting Over_ , and as John grabbed a quick sip of water, Paul had turned to the saxophone player who wailed the opening chords to _Whatever Gets You Through the Night._ The audience went wild as it recognized what was coming next.  
  
  


_Whatever gets you through the night_   
_('s alright, 's alright)_   
_It's your money or your life_   
_('s alright, 's alright)_   
_Don't need a sword to cut through flowers_   
_oh no, oh no_

_Whatever gets you through your life_   
_('s alright, 's alright)_   
_Do it wrong or do it right_   
_('s alright, 's alright)_   
_Don't need a watch to waste your time_   
_oh no, oh no_

_Hold me darlin' come on, listen to me!_   
_I won't do you no harm_   
_Trust me darlin' come on listen to me, come on listen to me_   
_Come on listen, listen!_

_Whatever gets you to the light_   
_('s alright, 's alright)_   
_Out the blue or out of sight_   
_('s alright, 's alright)_   
_Don't need a gun to blow your mind_   
_oh no, oh no_

_Hold me darlin', come on listen to me!_   
_I won't do you no harm_   
_Trust me darlin' come on listen to me, come on listen to me_   
_Come on listen, listen!_

  
  


*****

  
  
       
               Their week in New York had come to a close, and reluctantly John and Paul had trudged on to their private plane to travel to their next venue in Chicago, Illinois.  They had spent a few days with Jason and Gerry, but John still felt as though he hadn’t quite had his fix.  They’d have to drop by and see them again at the tour’s end.  And Paul had discovered a newly warm ally in Gerry.  This had surprised him, because for many years he had felt as though Gerry didn’t respect or trust him, but suddenly Gerry seemed to have warmed to him, and Paul was grateful for this turn of events, although he didn't know if he could trust it just yet.  
  
      Before they had parted the day before, Gerry had said to Paul, “Jason tells me that my friend Rob might have been attracted to you.”  
  
      Paul looked blankly at Gerry, not sure what to think or say.  He ultimately said, “John seems to think so, but I didn’t notice it.”  
  
      Gerry smiled.  “You’re Rob’s type, I’m afraid,” he said in a friendly tone.  “I hope you won’t fall sway to his charm.”  
  
      Paul looked at Gerry oddly, but then grinned.  “Everyone’s so sure that I’m a pushover,” Paul chuckled.  “But I’m made of sterner stuff.”    
  
      “You’ll need to be, if Rob’s got his sights on you,” Gerry chuckled, but he was warmed by Paul’s honest response.  “Next time I see him I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”    
  
      Spontaneously, Paul leaned in and gave Gerry one of his warm, full embraces.  “You do that,” Paul said to him, still holding him tightly.   
  
  


*****

  
  
  
      John was dozing on and off on the short two and a half hour flight to Chicago.  He knew Paul was sitting next to him, concentrating on business documents.  For some reason this filled John with a deep sense of warmth and security, and he smiled as he drifted off to sleep.


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The North American tour is in full swing, and John and Paul discover their limitations in Miami...

         It hadn’t been the brightest idea – touring the eastern states of the U.S. in February and March.  There had been a lot of rain and even some snow.  This hadn’t stopped the audiences from coming, nor had it dampened their enthusiasm.  But the travel between cities had been fraught with nervous moments and burdened with delays.  Still, here they were in the mid-south, Memphis, Tennessee.   The concerts in Chicago, Detroit, Indianapolis, Columbus, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia and Washington D.C. had all been highly successful, and the reviews had been glowing.  The interviews had been similar to the ones they’d experienced in Boston – short, inane, and safe.  This was all fine by John and Paul, who’d had their surfeit of personal controversy the year before.  
  
         The main thing was that the tour had served its purpose – _Last Year’s Echo_ was still on the charts in the top 20 albums list after a year, and they were presently enjoying another new single.  
  
         They were performing that night at the Mid South Coliseum, but had the day to kill.  The idea had come to them that while in Memphis they should do what Elvis would have done, so they had spent a day on a private tour of Elvis’s former home, Graceland.  As they stood in front of Elvis’s grave, John said quietly to Paul,  
  
         “Promise me you won’t do this to me after I die.”  
  
         Paul’s eyebrow did a balancing act.  “Do what?  Bury you?”  
  
         John mugged.  “No, you shit.  Don’t put me on display like this.”  
  
         “First, what makes you think you’ll die first?” Paul asked.  
  
         “Don’t be stupid.  Of _course_ I’ll die first.  I do _everything_ first.  You’re always second.”  An evil grin was hiding behind John’s eyes, and Paul was very, _very_ familiar with that particular grin.  
  
         “An egomaniac, even unto death,” Paul muttered, seemingly to himself, but not.  
  
         John chuckled.  “But I mean it.  None of this stuff.  I want to be cremated.  And I want you to carry my jar around wherever you go.  Even into the bathroom.  I mean it. I want it sitting _right next_ to your bed, so you’ll feel guilty about fucking anyone else.”  
  
         Paul knew it was wholly inappropriate to be fighting back a massive fit of giggles in front of the King’s grave.  He turned to walk away, and made it several yards before the giggles started coming out of his throat.  
  
         John wasn’t through.  “And another thing – my jar has to be bigger and better than Linda’s jar.”  
  
         Paul’s eyes popped open.  “So now Linda’s dying before me too?”  
  
         “Of course she will, you shit,” John said.  “Between the two of us, we will have chased her into an early grave.  It stands to reason.”  
  
         Paul shook his head.  “No.  No, it won’t happen that way.  Linda won’t die first, because she would never want to leave me alone.  She knows it would crush me.  And you won’t die first, because you always have to have the last word.  Think about it John – if I’m alive after you, I can tell them all the ugly truth about you!”  
  
         “ _Ahhh_ , but _would_ you Paul?  _Really_?  Would you really be crushed?  And would you really tell them all the ugly truth?  I seriously doubt it.  It’s not in your nature, son.”  
  
         The conversation was suddenly no longer funny for some reason, so they both automatically dropped it, and turned their attention back to the time capsule that was Graceland.   
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       That night they pulled out one of their sound check songs to honor their Memphis audience.  They sang their version of _That’s Alright Mama_ , with Paul singing the first half, and John singing the second half.  The audience went absolutely wild.  They also took turns occasionally using an Elvis voice to introduce their various songs, and John camped it up shamelessly when he sang _Starting Over_ , complete with swiveling hips.  At the end, John leaned into the mic and said in a low, southern drawl, “Thank you – thank you very _much_ …” and the audience lit up with applause and laughter.  
  
  


*****

  
  
       Atlanta, Georgia, was the next stop, followed by Miami, Florida two nights later.  In Miami, they stayed in one of the newly remodeled South Beach hotels, which were situated right on the beach, just east of the city proper.  What they learned about South Beach only after they got there was that it had just begun to be a haven for gays, bisexuals, lesbians and transgenders.  Consequently, at night, there was an almost Reeperbahn feel to the strand of nightclubs along the beachfront, although the scene was far more pastel in color, and upmarket in denizens.  This fact caused John and Paul some discomfort.  
  
         It wasn’t because they were disapproving of the colorful types who frequented the avenues, but it was the fact that they’d just spent a year distancing themselves from rumors of a sexual relationship, and staying in that particular area might prompt the rumors to start all over again.   Still they would only be there two days and one night, and would be leaving right after the concert the next day, so they decided they’d just laugh off any complications that may arise from the situation.   In fact, they hadn’t snuck out in disguise to a gay club since they had been in Hamburg, and thought maybe this was the place to do it.  It seemed as if everyone wore weird costumes to the clubs in SoBe, so they sent their personal assistant out to rent some costumes.  She came back with a Lone Ranger outfit for Paul, and a Tonto outfit for John.  John approved.  After all, Paul _was_ the goody-two-shoes, and he, John, _was_ the outcast.  That pretty much summed _them_ up in two costumes.  The best part of the costumes was that they each got to wear masks, and Paul had a hat while John had a wig.  It was perfect.  
  
         There was a real party atmosphere in the first club they went into.  It was wild with loud music, laser light displays, weird colored high-octane drinks, and hot, sweaty bodies, all disguised in an array of outrageous, and in some cases, obscene costumes.  There was no chance of being recognized; no chance at all.  What’s more, it was clear everyone there was also trying not to be recognized, so there wasn’t even someone walking around _trying_ to figure out who the people were.  With this sense of security wrapped around them, John and Paul felt free to let loose.  They began dancing with the crowd, which was mainly jumping up and down to the music with one’s arms up in the air while making loud and joyful noises.  No real skill was required, which was a good thing, because neither John nor Paul was known for his dance moves.  
  
         Of course, to become one with this crowd meant that one must endure the frequent pinches on one’s bum, and squeezes of one’s penis.  John and Paul barely noticed it, because it had been fairly standard practice for them to be man- and woman- handled while moving through grabbing crowds of fans.  It was all anonymous fun, after all.  Paul did have a few moments when he thought to himself, _I’m almost 47 years old, and the father of 4 children.  What on earth am I doing here?_   But the spirit of fun, adventure and rebellion that had lured him away from the drudgery planned out for him by the Liverpool Institute and Jim McCartney quickly drowned the downer thoughts, and Paul threw himself even more enthusiastically into the madness.  
  
         By the fourth club, John and Paul had imbibed (each) one Tornado, one Whirlpool, one Screaming Orgasm, and one Tie Me to the Bedpost.  Their theory had been one drink per club would be perfectly manageable and reasonable.  However, they had begun to feel that perhaps they should have stuck with the drink they came in with.  They were woozy, queasy, and the room was behaving oddly.  Traversing the sidewalk back to their hotel was like crossing one of those rope bridges over a raging Amazonian river.   They clung together tightly as they staggered down the street, and each repeatedly told himself, _don’t look down!_  
  
         Groaning and moaning, they finally made it to their hotel suite, which thankfully had two bedrooms with en suites, so they each repaired to one of the en suites and began puking their guts out.  It was a good 90 minutes before they had both felt safe enough to leave their porcelain thrones, and crawl into the master bedroom, and pull themselves naked into the bed.  They lay there next to each other, not daring to move, with a light on (in case they had to get up to use the bathroom), and contemplated the night’s many joint and several acts of stupidity.  
  
         By some miracle, they did get away with it, but they didn’t wake up until 3 p.m. the next day when their tour manager called them, worried that he hadn’t heard from them yet.  This meant they had to get up and go straight to sound check.  A third party would have been amused to watch the orchestrations as John and Paul stumbled around quietly, bumping into each other and items of furniture, as they sought to clean up, pack, and get dressed and out of the place.  They neither of them said a word until they were ensconced in the limo, heading for the arena.  They quietly exchanged handfuls of aspirins and shared a bottle of water to wash them down as they prepared for the inevitable clash of loud instruments and electronic amplifiers that awaited them at journey’s end.  
  
         “Last night makes the top ten I think, don’t you?” John said in a soft voice while massaging his temple.  
  
         Paul had no confusion over what John meant.  “Maybe not because of _what_ we did, but because of _how old_ we were when we did it.”  Just to say this much hurt like hell.  
  
         John grunted.  “True.  We did much worse shit when we were younger, but we could handle it better.”  
  
         “Note to self.  Stick to one type of drink.”  Paul’s voice was firm on that score.  
  
         “Yeah, we could have _bounced_ back home if we’d only had four of the same drink.”  John’s voice was more hopeful than sure.  One thing _was_ for sure, though:  it sucked big time, getting old.   
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       Unfortunately for John and Paul, their next gig was in New Orleans.  It didn’t seem appropriate not to visit Bourbon Street.  In fact, the residents might consider it to be downright rude.  At least they wouldn’t have to bother with costumes.  Two rockers would be expected to party on Bourbon Street, where the out-of-control drunken craziness was heterosexual for the most part, except for during Mardi Gras, of course.  So, at a loose end on their free day, they found themselves strolling down Bourbon Street.  They brought with them a few roadies, and also a couple of the musicians.  This would ensure that no unseemly gossip would come of the night.  
  
         Apparently the drink special on Bourbon Street was a hellish mixture called a Hurricane.  It appeared to be several colors at once, and Paul got queasy just looking at it.  He shook his head ‘no’ to John, and quietly ordered a mug of cold beer at _Your Father’s Mustache_.   John decided to be brave, and took a few sips of the Hurricane, but it reminded him unpleasantly of the Tornado he’d had two nights earlier (makes sense – both were dangerous weather fronts), so he politely pushed the drink aside and joined Paul with a mug of cold beer.  
  
         As they trolled the clubs, and shouted out to the “prossies” hanging out of the French windows who were enticing the men below with ropes of cheap beads and unspoken promises, they were frequently recognized, and stopped periodically to sign autographs or pose for photos.  It wasn’t until a loudly drunken group of college frat boys surrounded them that the roadies thought it was the better part of valor to skedaddle.  So John and Paul allowed themselves to be extricated from the high-spirited crowd, and then quickly piled into a waiting limo just at the top of Bourbon Street.  It was one of the wilder photos of John and Paul loaded up with piles of beads and surrounded by frat boys wielding plastic cups of alcohol that made the front page of the New Orleans Times –Picayune the next morning.  
  
         At the concert the next night, John and Paul introduced some Fats Domino into the repertoire, by including _Ain’t That A Shame_ , another one of their sound check songs.  Paul sat at the piano and sang the song in an _homage_ to one of his musical heroes, while John echoed the choruses and harmonies loudly into the mic.   
  
         Later that night, on their way in the limo to the airport, Paul suddenly blurted out, “Hey – did you see that!”  
  
         “No – what?” John asked, looking out Paul’s window reflexively, even though he had no idea what he was looking for.  
  
         “That drive-in back there – it has a drive through window that sells frozen daiquiris!”  
  
         “You’re making that up,” John said flatly, refusing to believe a town existed that would sell alcoholic beverages to drivers, and make it more convenient for them to do so by offering them drive through windows!  
  
         “I’m not, you know,” Paul said, insulted.  “I saw it.”  
  
         “Hey!  Driver!”  John pounded on the darkened glass that separated the driver from the passengers in back.  The dark window slowly wound down.  “Paul thought he saw a drive-through daiquiri stand!  That can’t be true, can it?”  
  
         The driver laughed heartily.  “Oh, but it is true.  It isn’t illegal to drink and drive.  It is only illegal to be _drunk_ and drive.  It’s an honor system.”  
  
         John thought about this for a moment, and then pronounced, “This is my kind of town.”  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       The Houston, Texas, gig was wild and woolly:  just what you would expect.  If it hadn’t been for the obnoxious and loud group of picketers outside the stadium announcing that all “queers” would go to hell, it would have been an all-around success.  John only found out about the picketers when he watched it on the news the next day, while Paul was packing.  (They’d be heading for the airport in minutes.)  
  
         “You don’t have to be queer to go to hell,” John informed the television in a loud voice.  “ _I_ was going to hell _long_ before I became a queer.”  
  
         “What’s that John?” Paul called from the other room, thinking John was talking to him.  
  
         “I’m yelling at the TV!” John shouted back.  
  
         _Well, of course he is_ , Paul thought as he shrugged and returned to his packing.  
  
         Their next stop was south of the border, down Mexico way.  It would be two gigs over three days in Mexico City.  John and Paul had been pleasantly surprised about how quickly the tickets for their concert had sold out, so they’d been persuaded to add a second show, and that one sold out even faster than the first one.  They hadn’t realized how popular they were in Mexico, and were both looking forward to performing there.  
  
         Mexico City was another one of those magnificent cities built in a large but shallow valley on a high plateau.  However, it was said the whole place was built on clay, since it was once a lakebed, and it was apparently sinking, as the groundwater was depleting.   A sinking city, like Venice, Italy, only opposite:  the one was sinking due to lack of water, and the other was sinking due to too much water.  _It’s hard to get a thing right_ , Paul thought reflectively as he read his guidebook.  
  
         The concerts were taking place in another soccer stadium, and the roadies and engineers were hard at work constructing the stage and setting the equipment aright when John and Paul arrived for their first sound check.  Although it was early March, the weather was warm and the breeze was nice, although it occasionally brought a not-very-nice smell from the shantytowns that ringed the outer edges of the city.  The problem, Paul had read, was sewage, although he had also read that the government was hard at work trying to fix the problem.  Combined with a low haze of smog that one could actually see (like Los Angeles had been back in the ‘70s), the occasional whiff of poverty did put a bit of a pall over the proceedings.  It was hard for Paul to acknowledge that just a few miles away people were suffering, while he was tuning his bass guitar and wondering what the craft table had to offer.  
  
         The crowd was perhaps the warmest and most welcoming of any crowd they’d played so far, and soon John and Paul felt as though they were melting into the hearts of the Mexican people.  They had stomped through rockers, and Paul had vamped his way through one of the sound check songs, _Besame Mucho_ , much to the delight of the audience, and they had sung their power ballads and political songs, and had just finished _Whatever Gets You Through the Night_.  The crowd had a fair number of rainbow signs that showed themselves that night, which had assured John that they weren’t in one of those uptight southern U.S. cities, or restrictive South American cities.  
  
          As the cheers and the music died down, Paul decamped to the piano, and John headed for a lone microphone sitting in front of a tall stool in the middle of the stage.  The lights went dim, and John thought to himself how appropriate to be singing this song in this city on this night, after the slums they had sighted on their way in, the magnificent ancient architecture they had viewed on their city tour, and the smoothly elegant wealthy people they’d met at a party the night before.  As he thought these thoughts, Paul began to play the soothing piano chords, which sounded like the soft swells of a peaceful ocean.  Concentrating now, John began to sing.  
  
  
  


_Imagine there's no heaven_   
_It's easy if you try_   
_No hell below us_   
_Above us only sky_   
_Imagine all the people_   
_Living for today..._

_Imagine there's no countries_   
_It isn't hard to do_   
_Nothing to kill or die for_   
_And no religion too_   
_Imagine all the people_   
_Living life in peace..._

_You may say I'm a dreamer_   
_But I'm not the only one_   
_I hope someday you'll join us_   
_And the world will be as one_

_Imagine no possessions_   
_I wonder if you can_   
_No need for greed or hunger_   
_A brotherhood of man_   
_Imagine all the people_   
_Sharing all the world..._

_You may say I'm a dreamer_   
_But I'm not the only one_   
_I hope someday you'll join us_   
_And the world will live as one_

  
  
       The audience had been absolutely still as John sang his _i ching._ They had swayed with the gently lapping music and John’s hypnotic singing, many of them holding up candles or cigarette lighters.  Many had tears rolling silently down their cheeks.  John had strummed his guitar throughout, but had been truly focusing on his vocals.   The sound of his words and his voice was like an adult lullaby, and it soothed and comforted as it rolled across the audience.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       Mexico sadly behind them, John and Paul and company headed back to Texas:  the Big D, to be precise.  Dallas.  On their trips through Dallas back in the ‘60s, John and Paul (with George and Ringo and Brian and Neil and Mal) had done the usual Texas things:  horseback riding on a ranch, BBQ while the sun went down, while cowboy songs played softly in the background.   On their 1964 trip, their press conference sometimes broke down into a free for all, as square-jawed, brush-cut reporters spouted _when did you stop beating your wife_ type questions at the four Beatles.  They had more than met their match in the cocky and cheeky Liverpudlians, who had been unfazed by the not-very-well-hidden jibes and insults.  They knew how to give as good as they got.  So Paul had melted into an exaggerated Dallas accent as he lazily answered his questions, his legs crossed in a decidedly not overly masculine way and swinging his upper leg insouciantly, while wearing his cowboy hat with a very sassy tilt to it.  And John had grinned maliciously as he answered every question “yes” or “no”, in effect agreeing with the loaded questions at every turn, but doing it so sarcastically that everyone knew he probably meant the opposite.  George had sucked in his heavenly cheeks and focused on tearing up little pieces of paper, while seeking lights for his cigarettes from the reporters in the front, and offering them ciggies from his pack to boot.  Ringo had sat back with a pleasant but confused expression on his face, making friendly jokes rather than answering the questions.  The Beatles 1, Reporters 0.  
  
         John and Paul wondered if Dallas had changed much, and it certainly had.  They were surprised to find a fully integrated police force guarding them, and the sergeant in charge was actually black!  They both remembered what a scandal it was that they had insisted upon a segregated audience on their first trip to Dallas in 1964.  But Dallas, to its credit (unlike some of the other southern cities) had actually agreed to their ultimatum, and had allowed an integrated crowd to peacefully mingle without harassing anyone.  
  
         This time ‘round, Paul was going to avoid the BBQs, because in Texas BBQ meant “beef”.  He wouldn’t be finding any grilled vegetables – it would be beef, beef, and more beef.  Of course, they were offered a BBQ by the mayor of Dallas, but they both declined, citing their need to get some rest before the concert, given the difficult pace of their concert tour.  Instead, they stayed in the suite, ate room service, and watched an action film on the movie channel.  They plowed through a six-pack of beer between the two of them, and then – after such a macho night – climbed into bed and fucked each other like mad.  _Take that, Dallas_!  
  
         The next night the concert was another great success, and the breed of reporters who had interviewed them beforehand were thankfully different than those they had encountered in the ‘60s.  What John and Paul had noted about their travels through America this trip was that America was beginning to become homogenized.  In the ‘60s they had been astounded at the regional differences, and even the substantial differences between cities in the same regions.  The swings in culture, dress, language, attitude, beliefs, manners and tastes were far greater than anything they’d experienced anywhere else.  But this trip ‘round, they were noting more similarities between the regions than differences.  Even the different accents were starting to soften, and for the most part had lost much of their stridency.  This was probably a consequence of the ever-present influence of 24 hour a day television, they thought.  
  
         There were picketers in front of the stadium again this night, some of them were religious bigots, and some of them were racial bigots.  The vast majority of the crowd completely ignored the picketers, and was excited as it slowly pushed its way into the venue.  
  
         Backstage, John and Paul were meeting with a few Tex/Mex and country music stars that had dropped by to pay respects.  At almost every American venue this trip they had entertained homegrown celebrity guests, and it reminded John and Paul – like nothing else ever would – how deep and strong the tradition of popular music was in America.   There didn’t seem to be a city in America that didn’t produce at least one big music star or band.  
  
         Because of the racists picketing outside, it had felt particularly satisfying (again) to sing _Imagine_ to this crowd.  It was like the balm poured over the damage caused by an acid attack.    But the song they segued into next was far more controversial, and John felt a thrill performing it in Dallas, Texas.  It was a bit of an “up yours”, but he felt sure the audience in this arena, at least, would be on his side.  
  
  
  


_Two, one two three four_

_Everybody's talking aboutBagism, Shagism,_   
_Dragism, Madism,Ragism, Tagism,_   
_This-ism, that-ism, ism ism ism_

_All we are saying is give peace a chance_   
_All we are saying is give peace a chance_

_Everybody's talkin' 'bout ministers, sinisters_   
_Banisters and canisters, bishops and fishops_   
_Rabbis and pop eyes, bye bye, bye bye_

_All we are saying, is give peace a chance_   
_All we are saying, is give peace a chance_

_Let me tell you now_   
_Everybody's talking about, revolution_   
_Evolution, masturbation, flagellation_   
_Regulation, integrations, meditations_   
_United Nations, congratulations_

_All we are saying is give peace a chance_   
_All we are saying is give peace a chance_

_Everybody's talking about, John and Yoko_   
_Timmy Leary, Rosemary,_   
_Tommy Smothers,Bobby Dylan, Tommy Cooper,_   
_Derek Taylor,Norman Mailer,_   
_Alan Ginsberg, Hare Krishna, Hare Hare Krishna_

_All we are saying is give peace a chance_   
_All we are saying is give peace a chance_   
_All we are saying is give peace a chance..._

 

  
       The chorus went on for a good two more minutes, and the crowd was singing loudly while their fists were pounding the air.  _Take that, Dallas_! John thought.  
  
         Later on, however, as they flew on to their next destination, Kansas City, John revised his own biased attitude about Dallas.  No one there had been rude or treated them badly.  No one had the bad manners to quiz them about their personal relationship.  No one there had acted racist, or sexist, or bigoted – except for two-dozen half-hearted picketers that were ignored by everyone else.  John realized he would need to change his own biased opinion about the American south.  It had changed a lot more than almost any other region he’d ever visited, under much more pressure, and at a very great cost, in a relatively short period of time.  25 years:  a third of an average lifetime.  That was a lot of change in a short period of time, and instead of being smug, John thought he should be a bit more humble about it.  
  
  


*****

  
  
      
         It was too much of a sure thing, so of course Paul was going to sing _Kansas City_ during the concert that night.  Although Little Richard Penniman was a Macon, Georgia, boy, for some reason he had turned up backstage in Kansas City to greet two of whom he considered to be his former acolytes, Lennon  & McCartney.  Paul was delighted to see him, and John was suspicious.  John figured this was all about publicity for Little Richard, who had been accompanied by a slew of photographers when he burst into their backstage green room.  But, knowing Paul would clock him later if he didn’t, John behaved himself reasonably well, and allowed Little Richard to use him as a publicity stunt by smiling widely for the camera, and appearing to be excited to see the man.  
  
         After their roadies had managed to shoo the photographers out of the room, Paul offered Little Richard a chair and poured him a drink.  Although Little Richard proclaimed himself to be a religious teetotaler these days, he gladly accepted the whiskey sour, and, crossing his legs in much the way Paul did (John noticed, for the first time), said,  
  
         “Well, you boys are dark horses.  You withheld from me!”  
  
         “Oh!” John shrieked in mock insult.  “How so?”  
  
         “You pretended to be so macho when we first met.  Don’t you remember?”  
        
         Paul was nonplussed, but John was up to the challenge.  “All I remember is you chasing Ringo around and people having to haul you off him.”  John’s voice wasn’t angry; it was flat.  But the expression on John’s face was intended to show Little Richard that he was no one to be trifled with.  
  
         Little Richard ignored the jibe.  He turned to Paul: Paul, with those beautiful glowing eyes, and long eyelashes, and arched eyebrows, and pouty mouth.  “Paul, I always believed you were really ‘one of us’, although you were so closeted, poor boy.  It’s a shame.”  
  
         “ _What’s_ a shame?” John snarled.  
  
         “I had some interesting fantasies about you, Paul, in the day.  You were so sweet, sitting there at my feet.”  
  
         “He wasn’t at your feet,” John growled, “except when we were kneeling for photographers.  Otherwise, we were all sitting in chairs, is how I remember it.”  
  
         Paul tried to laugh the innuendo off.  He truly did admire Little Richard’s music, and didn’t like to get at cross-purposes with him.  He decided a change of subject was in order.  “So what brings you to Kansas City tonight?”  Paul asked politely.  
  
         “ _We_ do, Paul, obviously.  Isn’t that right?”  John turned to Little Richard with a slightly malicious smile.  
  
         “Yes, of course, John.  I wanted to see little John and Paul performing.  And it is wonderful to see you both again.  You’re not interested in…well…a little _experimenting,_ are you?”  Little Richard’s eyes were wide open and glittering dangerously as they peered over the edge of his tumbler.  
  
         Paul laughed nervously.  _Experimenting_.  With Little Richard. That sounded, well, _icky_.  
  
         John said, “Oh, our _experimenting_ days are all over, Richard.   We’re just a couple of middle-aged squares, now.  And you’ve got it all wrong.  Neither one of us is, errr, _light in the loafers_ , so to speak.  It’s all rumors and gossip, and you should know better.”  John was glaring at Little Richard, because he knew the man to be notoriously indiscreet, and the man was also famous for his exaggerated or invented memories that featured him at the center of all the attention in every situation.  John had no desire to be playing second fiddle to Little Richard in the man’s fantasies; nor did he want Paul to become a victim of Little Richard’s slander.  
  
         The unpleasant encounter behind him, John dragged Paul away from Little Richard and towards the stage.  “That man is a menace,” he growled in a low voice.  
  
         “He’s a bit over the top, that’s for sure,” was Paul’s less judgmental assessment.  
  
         “He’ll spin this meeting into publicity for himself.  You mark my words.”  John looked pissed, and Paul mewed, knowing that John was most likely correct.  It was still hard for Paul not to have a lingering fondness for the man who had sung _Long Tall Sally_ and _Golly Miss Molly_ as though the last few devils in hell were after him.  
  
         When the right time in the concert came, Paul stepped up to the microphone and announced to the audience, “I’m a huge fan of Fats Waller, and in his honor we’re singing this next song.”  The audience knew what was coming, and burst out in gleeful shouts and cheers.  
  
  


_I'm going to Kansas City_   
_Going to get my baby back home_   
_I'm going to Kansas City_   
_Going to get my baby back home, yeah_   
_Well it’s a long, long, time since_   
_My baby’s been gone_

_Ah, Kansas City_   
_Going to get my baby one time_   
_I’m going to Kansas City_   
_Going to get my baby one time_   
_It’s just a 1-2-3-4, 5-6-7-8-9_

 

  
  John joined in lustily in the chorus, repeating back Paul’s words in a thrusting, urgent voice:  
  
  


_Hey, hey, hey, hey_   
_(Hey, hey, hey, hey)_   
_Hey baby!_   
_(Hey baby!)_   
_Ooh now girl_   
_(Yeah, yeah!)_   
_I said now, huh_   
_(Girl, girl!)_

_Now, now, now, now tell me baby_   
_What’s been wrong with you?_   
_(Hey hey hey hey)_   
_Hey now baby_   
_(Hey baby)_   
_Ooh now girl_   
_(Yeah, yeah)_   
_I said now, huh_   
_(Girl, girl)_

_I said bye_   
_(Bye bye, bye bye)_   
_Bye bye baby, bye bye_   
_(Bye bye, bye bye)_   
_So long_   
_(So long, so long)_   
_Bye bye, baby I’m gone_   
_(Bye bye, bye bye)_

  
  
  
       It was a substantially different version that the original 1952 Leiber & Stoller hit.  But John and Paul had sanitized the lyrics in 1962 at Epstein’s behest in order to be able to sing the song on mainstream television, and in front of young white teenagers.  The _original_ lyrics were a bit more suggestive of a man on a mission for some illicit, illegal, prostitute sex:  
  
  


_I’m going to Kansas City,_   
_Kansas City here I come_   
_Going to Kansas City,_   
_Kansas City here I come_   
_They’ve got a crazy kind of loving there_   
_And I’m gonna get me some_

_I'm gonna be standing on the corner_   
_12th Street and Vine_   
_I'm gonna be standing on the corner_   
_12th Street and Vine_   
_With my Kansas City baby_   
_And a bottle of Kansas City wine_

_Well, I might take a plane, I might take a train_   
_But if I have to walk I'm going just the same_   
_I'm going to Kansas City_   
_Kansas City, here I come_   
_They got some crazy little women there_   
_And I'm gonna get me one_

  
  
  
       By now, of course, everyone expected to hear Paul sing the song the Beatles way, and while he could have departed from what was expected of him and sung the original version, Paul decided not to.  At least the way the Beatles sang the song it was an original version, specific to them.  Literally dozens of others had sung the song the way it had originally been written.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       On the flight to their next destination, Denver, Colorado, John turned to Paul and said,  
  
         “You know, how we changed the words to _Kansas City_ was emblematic of all the shucking and jiving we were doing back in those days:  it was all to get ahead; all to be famous.  We were untrue to ourselves, and to what we actually loved and believed in.”  
  
         Paul was a bit exasperated with John’s totalism.  “It’s not all one thing or the other,” Paul said sharply.  “We did what we had to do to get ahead, but once we got ahead, we pushed plenty of boundaries.  If we hadn’t got our feet in the door, we never could have done the later stuff, and that means we couldn’t be doing what we’re doing now.”  
  
         John took that in, and then said in a suggestive low voice, “And what are we doing now, Pud?  Aren’t we still shucking and jiving?”  
  
         Paul was silenced.  Yes, they were.  Yes, they were being dishonest about their personal relationship.  There were a few reasons for doing so.  One was the altruistic one – to protect their children and Paul’s wife.  But the other reason was there, too – the fear of risking their legacy, and their new burgeoning recording career.  In a way, it was the same damn thing.  Paul sighed.  
  
         “What do you expect of me, John Lennon?” he finally asked wearily.  “Perfection?”


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief role reversal for John and Paul who then meet the vanguard of new alternative music and share the stage with an old band ma

       The mile high city was a city it was hard to catch your breath in, Paul decided, as he tried to complete his regular 3-mile run.  He’d made it about half that distance before he was gasping for air, and his head felt dizzy.  Feeling wretched, he made his way back to the hotel suite, where John was sacked out on a sofa mindlessly cycling through the television stations with his remote control.  
  
         Paul went straight to their bedroom, and took a shower, hoping that would make him feel better, but he found that he was feeling weaker and sicker when he stepped out, so he dried himself off and climbed into the bed, pulling the sheets and blankets over him.  His limbs seemed to be shivering as he tried to get comfortable.  The shivering went on for several minutes, and Paul didn’t feel as though he would ever feel warm again.  Finally, the warmth of the blankets seemed to seep into his outer skin, and then into the tissue beneath, and the shivering stopped.  But now his head was pounding as if he had just stopped banging it against the wall.  He hadn’t had a single drink in over 24 hours!  This was a hangover based on something else, entirely.  
  
         The flu!  Shit!  He couldn’t get sick now!  There were only 7 more gigs – two and a half more weeks – left in the tour!  They hadn’t missed a single concert, or been late even once; he hadn’t even missed sound check once!  John had performed through the tail end of his food poisoning in South America that time, so Paul was determined to get through tonight’s performance come hell or high water.  He looked at the clock.  It was only 11 a.m.  He could catch 4 hours’ sleep before they had to leave for sound check.  Perhaps he would feel better by then.  
  
         Eventually, John began to wonder what was taking Paul so long.  Usually, Paul would come back from his workout and go into the shower, and then come bouncing out, ready to take on the day.  So, after a 30 or 40-minute time lapse, it dawned on John that maybe something was wrong.   He got up, stretched a bit (getting older was a _bitch_ ) and entered the master bedroom.  There he saw a huge lump on the bed, covered in several blankets and even a heavy woolen overcoat.  The room was pleasantly warm to start out with, so John couldn’t understand the need for so many layers.  He was concerned now.  He walked around to Paul’s side of the bed, and kneeled down until he was looking in Paul’s sleeping face.  
  
         Paul didn’t look right.  He looked a bit white, and to the touch Paul’s skin was clammy.  Although he was asleep, his face did not look peaceful.  There was a grimace frozen on his features, as if he had fallen asleep in the middle of an arc of pain.  John put his palm over Paul’s forehead, and while the forehead was warm, it was not feverishly so.  Although the skin was clammy, it was a cool clamminess.  He didn’t have a fever, obviously, so it couldn’t be a flu.  What was going on?  
  
         John didn’t want to wake Paul up, so he went to the other room and called the tour manager.  
  
         “Paul’s sick,” John said succinctly when poor, long-suffering Evan Willis answered the phone.  
  
         _Oh, gawd, what now_?  Evan thought.  But he _said_ , “What’s wrong?”  
  
         “I don’t know.  He was absolutely fine this morning when we woke up.  He went off for his run and came back and immediately went to bed.  He isn’t feverish, but he seems kind of _cold_.  It isn’t cold in the room at all.  He looks miserable.”  
  
         “Is he hung over or coming off a high?”  Willis was jaundiced by now, after having watched the pair’s antics through over 40 countries and 5 continents in the past 7 months.    
  
         “ _No_ , Evan!  We didn’t have anything to drink last night, and we didn’t even smoke pot.”  John was impatient, now.  Did Willis think he was an idiot?  John could recognize a hangover from alcohol and drugs by now, just as easily as he could recognize his own sons.  
  
         Willis looked at the clock.  11:30 a.m.  They still had time.  “I’ll call the concierge and get a hold of the hotel doctor,” he said.  “Can Paul describe his symptoms?”  
  
         “He’s asleep, isn’t he?” John snapped back.  “And don’t ask me to wake him up!”  
  
         Willis hung up and immediately set the wheels in motion to summon the hotel doctor.  Then he made his way up to the stars’ suite.  John answered the door, and looked relieved to have responsible adult company.  He led Willis into the bedroom he shared with Paul.  Willis was a bit uncomfortable, once he saw that the bed had obviously been slept in the night before on both ends, but decided to put that behind him.  He leaned over to take a better look at Paul’s face.  
  
         “He really looks bad,” Willis said.  
  
         “Didn’t I tell you?” John snapped, a bit more loudly than perhaps he had intended to.  But it didn’t wake Paul up.  He was, however, starting to thrash around in the bed as if he had a fever.  But he didn’t have a fever.  John and Willis looked at each other in alarm.  “What the _fuck_?” John cried.  He looked as though he might start falling apart at any moment.  Thankfully, just then, the suite’s doorbell rang, and both John and Willis headed eagerly for the door.  
  
         The hotel doctor was a middle-aged man with prematurely all white hair, who had a ruddy but healthy complexion, and the body of an inveterate skier or a long distance runner.  No doubt he was, living in Denver.    
  
         “What’s wrong?” he asked, looking at John as if John were his patient.  
  
         “It’s my…er…friend, it’s Paul, not me,” John stuttered.  “He’s…he’s in ou…his bedroom,” he added, looking scared.  
  
         “What are his symptoms?” The doctor’s voice was calm and clipped.  
  
         “We don’t know, because he’s asleep, but his skin is white and cold to the touch, and he’s thrashing around in the bed.”  
  
         The doctor smiled, and said, “Ah, I doubt it is anything to worry about.”  
  
         “How do you know?” John demanded, indignant.  Willis was glaring at the doctor, too, and ready to call a private doctor.  
  
         “How long have you been in Denver?” The doctor asked, choosing to ignore John’s outburst.  
  
         “We arrived here after midnight last night,” John said, wondering angrily what this had to do with anything.  
  
         “And the symptoms started?”  
  
         “About an hour ago, I think, after he came back from running.”  
  
         The doctor laughed.  “Classic case of altitude sickness.  It is aggravated by physical exercise, and its onset is usually 8 to 10 hours after the patient is exposed to the higher elevation.  Of course, it is not overly common for people to suffer at 5300 feet above sea level, as Denver is, but there is a significant percentage of people who are especially sensitive to hypoxia who react to it with fairly strong symptoms.”  
  
         “What is hypoxia?” John asked.  
  
         “It means a lack of sufficient oxygen.  Denver is a mile above sea level, and there is 17 to 30 per cent less oxygen in the air at this altitude than at sea level.  Where we are now, I’d estimate about 21% less.”  
  
         “He has to perform tonight,” Willis said, getting down to brass tacks.  
  
         “Oh,” the doctor said, the smile disappearing from his face.  “Well, that may be a problem.”  
  
         “Why?  What do you mean?”  John asked.  
  
         “It takes a few days for affected people to acclimatize to the lower levels of oxygen.  It is doubtful he will feel better by tonight.”  
  
         “Don’t you think you should take a look at him before you diagnose him?” Willis asked in a skeptical voice.  
  
         “Yes, of course.  It’s just that I am a hotel doctor, and 98% of the calls I get are for non Denver-ites who are suffering from altitude sickness, and the symptoms you described are textbook hypoxia.”  He followed John to the bedroom, and studied his patient.  He felt the forehead, listened for a pulse, and placed a thermometer in Paul’s mouth.  That was when his patient stirred.  
  
         Paul’s eyes opened to see a completely strange man staring down into his face, and a moment later he could see John and Willis standing behind the man, looking worried.  
  
         “Who are you?” Paul mumbled, realizing suddenly there was a thermometer in his mouth.  
  
         “I’m the hotel doctor,” he said softly, “and you’re suffering from altitude sickness.  Not serious, and it will soon pass.  I have no doubt at all.”  
  
         Paul was relieved to hear this.  It didn’t sound as debilitating as flu.  “I need to get up in a few hours and go to sound check,” he said, although his head was doing loop-de-loops around the room, and his muscles were unresponsive and filled with lassitude.  It didn’t seem likely he would be able to stand up, much less perform.  
  
         “Paul, don’t be silly,” Willis said.  “You don’t have to do sound check.  John will do it for you, won’t you John?”  
  
         John’s head jerked up and then he said, “Yes.  Yes, of course.  Like you did for me that time.  I’ll do sound check, and you don’t have to show up until just before the show.”  
  
         Willis checked his watch.  “That means, since it is just after noon now, you have seven hours to sleep.  I’ll be sure to wake you up and accompany you to the arena in time for the show.”  
  
         Paul felt relieved.  Seven hours sounded like a sufficient amount of time to get this _thing_ out of his system.  He didn’t notice the skeptical look on the doctor’s face, but the doctor was tactful enough to withhold comment until he and John and Willis had traipsed out of the bedroom.  The doctor opened up his medical bag, and brought out some ibuprofen.  He gave John instructions on how to administer it.  He then said,  
  
         “It is not very likely that he will feel well enough to perform tonight.   I’m assuming it will take an enormous amount of energy and oxygen to sing in a huge arena for a few hours.”  
  
         Willis looked a bit irritated and said, “You’re the doctor.  How can we make this happen?”  
  
         The doctor nodded and said, “Let me call over to my office.  I’ll have them send over an oxygen tank and mask.  We can administer a little oxygen to him directly for a few hours, and that should help him feel better for the concert.  But it is a temporary fix.  The only way to get over a mild case like this is to get used to the altitude over time.”  
  
         “We’re not going to be here long enough to worry about it,” John said sharply.  “We’re getting on a plane for our next gig as soon as the concert is over.”  John turned to Willis, who was looking a little surprised.  That hadn’t been the plan before.  “No reason to make Paul suffer any longer than he has to,” John said firmly.  Willis nodded and knew that he would be on the phone rearranging their travel and hotel arrangements that afternoon.  
  
         This all decided, the doctor made his phone call, and said he’d be back up to the suite when the oxygen arrived, and then he left.  Willis looked at John and said, “What next?  Christ!  _Oxygen tanks_ for chrissakes!”  
  
         John laughed in spite of his worrying.  “You’ll at least be able to say that this tour wasn’t boring.”  
  
  


*****

  
  
        
         The night’s concert was memorable on a number of counts, not the least (from Paul’s point of view) for the way John stepped up and did the lion’s share of the heavy lifting.  As Paul had done for John when John had been sick, John had done the sound check, and sung all the loud and demanding numbers.  Paul’s numbers were spaced out judiciously, and while he seemed much more subdued than his usual stage persona, Paul managed to smile and keep his wits about him despite his pounding headache and the dizziness and the queasiness in his stomach.  He had periodically edged towards the wings of the stage and been given a few hits of oxygen, although the doctor would not have approved of this questionable use of the product.  It may not have actually helped, but it sure helped Paul’s mindset, so they managed to close the show without short-changing the audience, and soon John was shepherding Paul on to the private airplane, and wrapping him up in blankets.  
  
         “I’m feeling a bit better now, thanks, John,” Paul said quietly, a little embarrassed by all the fuss:  Paul wasn’t used to being the fuss- _ee_ ; he was used to being the fuss- _er_.  
  
         “Don’t go all Spartan on me, babe,” John said smartly.  “I know when you’re sick; you can’t hide it.  You always thought you could hide it from me, but you never could.  Now lay back and put your feet up!”  John was tucking Paul in a little too fiercely, so that Paul was left feeling a bit like he was in a sarcophagus.  Surreptitiously, when John sat down and wasn’t watching, Paul wiggled a bit to loosen the blankets.  He’d felt a little like a papoose there for a moment.   
  
  


*****

  
  
  
        Vancouver, Canada.   A beautiful northern Pacific coast city with frosty white mountain tops as a backdrop, and a cold deep blue harbor as a foreground.   Paul had slept through the night, and John tiptoed around all the next morning, wanting Paul to rest as long as possible.  John was relieved, because Paul’s thrashing and aches and groans and moans had stopped, and he had slept as peacefully as a newborn babe for hours now.  Who knew that Paul suffered from altitude sickness?  They’d been to Denver before, back in the ‘60s, and Paul hadn’t gotten sick then.  John grimaced as the thought hit him _:  it sucks big time getting old_.  
  
         The concert that night was good, although the audience was a bit cooler and (was this a fanciful thought?) more intellectual than some of their most recent audiences.  John mused over the fact as they made their way through the repertoire, and noting the subtle differences in the audience’s reactions to the various songs.  The sing-along songs were less enthusiastically greeted here, but the more serious and lyrics-laden songs were listened to with an intentness that John could practically cut with a knife.  It had been an interesting night.  
  
         They decided to stay another night there before flying on to the next city:  Seattle, in Washington state, U.S.  John felt as though Paul needed the stability for another day to get his sea legs back, although by then Paul was showing signs of being every bit as hyperactive and annoying as he’d been before he got sick.   They decided to fly out the next morning, which was the morning of the Seattle concert, and enjoy some nightlife in Vancouver.   
  
         The downtown lights were bright, and there were plenty of nightclubs lit up with neon, which were reflected back in the harbor’s water.  They had decided to be conventional in Vancouver, but mainly because they were worn out and not up to the whole disguise thing.  The first club they came to they were instantly recognized, and they attracted so much attention that they quickly turned tail, and tried another club, which was not on the beaten path, and looked a bit more subdued.  It was a quiet blues club, with the kind of jazz-cool blues played by musicians in the Pacific Northwest.  The music sounded like vodka spilling over ice cubes in a glass tumbler.  The club was dark, and if John and Paul were recognized, no one bothered them.  They were all too cool for school, John guessed, which was more than fine by him.  They stayed and listened to the music for three hours, leaning against the wall in their wooden chairs, occasionally sipping their whiskey, and saying nothing.  It was cool and peaceful, like the color blue.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
        The Seattle concert was popping with energy.  It was an interesting change from the Vancouver scene.  The two cities were reckoned to be similar in sensibility, but to John and Paul Seattle seemed a little more blue-collar, and therefore it had a bit more hustle to it.   There was a musical underground growing and thriving in Seattle at the time.  It was called “grunge”.   One of grunge’s first super-groups, Soundgarden, had just gotten a mainstream record contract.  Alice in Chains and a new group called Nirvana were following not far behind, and great things were predicted for them.  John read about the groups’ new commercial success in the local underground newspaper, and commented to Paul, “Well, that’s the end of grunge, then.”  
  
         Paul looked over John’s arm to read what John had read, and then shook his head.  “You’re not allowed to be such a cynic, John.  You’ve already made it and have all the goodies.  Don’t begrudge others for wanting it too.”  
  
         “But you go to the mainstream record companies, and you’re basically a sell out,” John argued.  
  
         Paul had long since tired of this argument.  “All success means is that you’ve created a sound that has captured the imagination and hearts of a lot of people.  Why is that ‘selling out’?  Why isn’t that a _good_ thing?”  
  
         “The eternal debate,” John commented wryly, and then winked at Paul.  “You know I’m a hypocrite, babe.  I do this just to tease you, and you bite every time.  I’m as much of a sellout as the next guy – and more so, actually, because I pretend not to be.”  
  
         Paul sighed deeply and shook his head.  He was determined not to respond to the prod.  John was no more of a “sell out” than was Paul himself; and neither were any of the other acts that had managed to change the music scene by enticing listeners with a new and different sound.  Paul had never bought into the ridiculous notion that in order to be “real” and “genuine” you had to be a financial failure.  
  
         However, both John and Paul were eager to go out and hear some of these bands, and so spent a good night moving from one club to the other and listening to the loud, head-banging music.  Their guide to the clubs was the promoter of their concert, a youngish man who was a devoted follower of the underground music scene in Seattle.  
  
         “They all idolize the Beatles, you know, even though they are largely anti-melody,” he told them.  
  
         Paul’s eyes crossed with that one.  He couldn’t imagine why they would like the Beatles if they were anti-melody.  But he was too polite to say so.  
  
         John wasn’t too polite, however.  “Well, what about the Beatles do they like if they don’t like melody?” He asked bluntly.  
  
         Their host looked a bit taken aback, but quickly recovered.  “The _spirit_ of the Beatles is what they appreciated.  The complete nonchalance, and the fact that you came out of grungy clubs like ours, and the fact that you guys were thumbing your noses at authority, even as the establishment fawned all over you.”  
  
         That answered John’s question satisfactorily, as indeed it did Paul’s unasked question.    
  
         “We do have some groups that are bringing some melody in – like _Nirvana_.  Have you met Kurt Cobain?  Have you heard of him?  
  
         “I’ve heard some of their music,” Paul piped up, surprising John, who hadn’t.  
  
         “When?”  John asked him, showing his astonishment.  
  
         “On the plane from Vancouver,” Paul said.  “I’d asked for a compilation of local music, and I was listening to the tape on my headphones.”  
  
         John was chastened.  It hadn’t occurred to _him_ to brush up on the local music scene.  
  
         “What did you think?” Their host asked them eagerly.  
         
         “It is turbulent and discordant,” Paul said seriously.  “The guitars sometimes remind me of Neil Young, the way he plays the distorted guitar.”  
  
         “I can introduce you to Kurt and his band mates, if you like,” the promoter said, a bit shyly.  “They are _huge_ Beatles fans.”  
  
         “Well, we’re leaving after the show tomorrow…” Paul started to say.  
  
         “They’ve got tickets to the concert.  I could hook you up backstage before the show if you like.”  
  
         John and Paul exchanged a quick glance.  Neither of them were great fans of socializing before a show.  But they were not going to be inhospitable to their concert promoter, or fellow club musicians.  
  
         “Sure,” John said smoothly.  “Bring ‘em back!  It’ll be fun.”  
  
         So, the night of the concert, after sound check, John and Paul were hanging in their backstage dressing room when the promoter knocked on the door, and soon was leading in three very grungy looking young men, all of who had longer than shoulder length hair.  There was a shorter blond with compelling blue eyes (who appeared to be wearing smudged eye makeup), and a tall, gawky looking guy with a long face and dark hair, and a medium-sized man with his hair parted on the side, with medium-colored brown hair.  They reminded John – quixotically - of the three bears.  
  
         The blond turned out to be the lead singer and resident genius, Kurt Cobain, who was clearly high.  The tall gawky kid was Krist Novoselic, the bassist, and the medium looking guy was their drummer, Chad Channing.  Cobain did all the talking, and soon he was reminding Paul of John in a very striking way.  
  
         “I really dig your music, man,” Cobain said, looking at both of them, and not at all disturbed that he used the singular to refer to a plural.  
  
         John had taken the time to listen to Paul’s grunge tape before arriving at the stadium, so he wasn’t completely ignorant of their sound at least.  “Yeah, Paul and I dig your music too,” he said, unconsciously modeling Cobain’s emotionless and laconic speaking style.  “I hear you’re signing with Geffen,” John continued.  “I recorded with that label in 1980.”  John was remembering the ill-fated _Double Fantasy_.  
  
         “Krist and I are kinda like you two,” Kurt drawled.  “We kinda grew up together, in our hometown of Aberdeen, which is south and west from here.  We were in a slew of garage bands together.”  
  
         “We would have been in garage bands too,” Paul chirped up, mischief dancing in his face, “if we’d had garages.”  Everyone chuckled at that.  “Are you working on new material?” Paul asked.  
  
         “Yeah, but we’re kind of getting over the ‘pure’ grunge sound a bit,” Cobain said, making a face at the word ‘ _pure_ ’ and surprising John and Paul (and apparently also his drummer, Channing, if the man’s expression was anything to go by.)  “All these fuckin’ bands from places none of us ever heard of are infiltrating, and they’re turning the original sound into a cliché.”  Krist Novoselic was nodding his agreement fiercely throughout Cobain’s speech.  “We’re moving in a slightly different direction, now,” Cobain concluded.  
  
         “You’re using more melody than the others,” Paul said.   “I noticed that right away.”  
  
         Cobain nodded in Paul’s direction with respect.  “Melody is supposed to the antithesis of grunge, but the way I look at it, all music has to grow in order to be relevant.”  _How John-like,_ Paul thought, fondly.  But Paul noticed that the drummer was looking decidedly pissed off as Cobain spoke.  
  
         Suddenly, the drummer spoke.  “I don’t think the sound is cliché.”  He was grumpy.  “And I think melody is a fuckin’ sellout.”  
  
         “No one’s twisting your arm to stay, dude,” Cobain said lazily, taking a huge suck out of his cigarette and then tapping away the ashes.  He then blew the smoke out in a slow, steady stream, as if he and his lungs had all day to do it in.  
  
         John and Paul exchanged quick glances.  This was awkward.  Well, they’d seen their share of band implosions, and been participants in them, too.  There was nothing new under the sun.  John being John, he chose not to ignore the elephant in the room.  
  
         “Dissention within a band is healthy to a point,” he said.  “It keeps everyone on his toes.  But in the end, you all have to pull in the same direction or you’ll all end up in the fuckin’ mud.  Trust me.  Been there, done that.”  
  
         Cobain and Novoselic snickered in agreement.  Channing did not.  Paul very discreetly kicked John in the shin.  
  
         Several months later, neither John nor Paul were surprised to learn that Nirvana had kicked their drummer Chad Channing to the curb (or had he left them?), and had replaced him with another long time Seattle grunge personality, one Dave Grohl.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
        The smell of marijuana wafted over the arena crowd like a protective shell.   Seattle was that kind of venue.  _Give Peace a Chance_ had just trailed to an end.  
  
         “You’re gonna make us high by second hand smoke,” Paul complained into the microphone to the audience’s raucous laughter and applause.   Catcalls came floating down from the highest rafters.  The consensus seemed to be that this particular part of the audience thought that Paul was _already_ high, entirely on his own initiative.  
  
         “Yeah, yeah,” John shouted back to the nosebleed contingent.  “You’re fuckin’ out of it – what do you know?”  The rest of the audience shouted out in encouragement and amusement.   The loopy shouts were still emanating from the top of the arena, so John said, “You’ll have to quiet down now if you want to hear the next song.”  
  
         Gradually the noise abated, and Paul – who was back at the piano now – prepared to light in to the next show stopper.  
  
  


_Hey Jude, don't make it bad_   
_Take a sad song and make it better_   
_Remember to let her into your heart_   
_Then you can start to make it better_

_Hey Jude, don't be afraid_   
_You were made to go out and get her_   
_The minute you let her under your skin_   
_Then you begin to make it better._

_And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain_   
_Don't carry the world upon your shoulders_   
_For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool_   
_By making his world a little colder_

_Hey Jude, don't let me down._   
_You have found her, now go and get her_   
_Remember to let her into your heart,_   
_Then you can start to make it better_

_So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin,_   
_You’re waiting for someone to perform with_   
_And don't you know that it's just you, hey Jude, you'll do,_   
_The movement you need is on your shoulder_

_Hey Jude, don't make it bad_   
_Take a sad song and make it better_   
_Remember to let her under your skin_   
_Then you'll begin to make it_   
_Better better better better better better, oh!_

_Na na na na na ,na na na, hey Jude..._

       

  
        The audience carried on with the chorus until the ten- minute mark passed, and finally Paul put an end to it with a loud musical flourish.     
  
  


*****

  
  
  
        The Las Vegas performance had come and gone, and the first gig in L.A., at the Hollywood Forum, was that night.  They were staying at Ringo and Barbara’s home in the Hollywood Hills.   The night before they had arrived so late, that Ringo was half asleep as he showed them to a guest room in his silk paisley dressing gown.  He had then quickly disappeared back to bed.  John and Paul certainly had not blamed him.  They had quickly undressed and climbed into bed, falling directly into each other’s arms.  
  
         “I’d like to fuck you, but I don’t have the energy,” John said frankly.  
  
         Paul chuckled.  “It sucks getting old.”  
  
         Instead, they held each other tightly until they both fell asleep.  
  
         But now they were standing backstage preparing to confront their first Los Angeles audience together since 1966, although Paul had played there –at the same arena – in 1976 with Wings.  Los Angeles was a tough concert town.  It was too infused with industry, and usually the first several rows were suit-types – agents, producers, studio executives and the like.  They were notoriously unresponsive audience members, and it was dispiriting to try to maintain one’s enthusiasm and energy on a stage when the first 15 rows of seats or so are filled with dead fish, bored out of their minds or pretending to be.  John and Paul both knew this, if not from direct experience, then from hearing about it from all of their colleagues in the music business, so it was with trepidation that they waited for the moment when they would have to take the stage.  
  
         In the end, it wasn’t as bad as they had been led to believe.  There clearly were industry types in the front rows, but they were as crazy and goofy as the rest of the audience, so it was all good.  The big surprise for the night was when Ringo joined them on stage to play drums on the rock ‘n roll segment, pounding out _Twist and Shout, I Saw Her Standing There, Slow Down_ and _I’m Down_ with panache, wearing that blissed out expression on his face that had always made everyone smile.  He later came out and rejoined them for _Hey Jude_ , and with the conclusion of that song, the main concert came to a close.  
  
         John, Paul and Ringo left the stage as the audience stood and cheered for more.  A few minutes later, Paul came out by himself, carrying an acoustic guitar.  He stood alone at the microphone, and began to sing with no accompaniment whatsoever,  
  
  


_Yesterday,_   
_All my troubles seemed so far away_   
_Now it looks as though they're here to stay_   
_Oh, I believe in yesterday_

_Suddenly,_   
_I'm not half the man I used to be_   
_There's a shadow hanging over me_   
_Oh, yesterday came suddenly_

_Why she had to goI don't know, she wouldn't say_   
_I said something wrong_   
_Now I long for yesterday_

_Yesterday,_   
_Love was such an easy game to play_   
_Now I need a place to hide away_   
_Oh, I believe in yesterday_

_Why she had to goI don't know, she wouldn't say_   
_I said something wrong_   
_Now I long for yesterday_

_Yesterday_   
_Love was such an easy game to play_   
_Now I need a place to hide away_   
_Oh, I believe in yesterday_

     The audience had stood throughout the whole song, singing along.  Lovers of all ages were holding each other, parents were hugging their children, and there were few dry eyes in the house: funny how a song so simple could move so many people so deeply for so long.  
  
         As the mournful strains of melody faded away, a loud orchestral crash was heard.  This was really the work of Wix Wickens, sitting behind a synthesizer, but it sounded like a whole orchestra playing a discordant note all at the same time.  The sound was instantly recognizable and the audience went wild.  The crash melted into soft acoustic guitar chords, played by John Lennon, as he was suddenly highlighted with a pink spot.  John’s drugged-sounding voice pierced the dark arena.  
  
 

_I read the news today oh, boy_   
_About a lucky man who made the grade_   
_And though the news was rather sad_   
_Well, I just had to laugh_   
_I saw the photograph_   
_He blew his mind out in a car_   
_He didn't notice that the lights had changed_   
_A crowd of people stood and stared_   
_They'd seen his face before_   
_Nobody was really sure if he was from the House of Lords_

  
        Apropos of nothing, Paul all too clearly (as he played the piano) remembered his old dear friend Tara Browne, for whom the verse had been written:  the golden boy Guinness heir who was too fond of fast drugs, fast women, and fast cars.  Paul had experienced a very unpleasant wipeout on a moped one Liverpool December night, leaving his face in a kind of a mess.  Tara had been there.   
  
  


_I saw a film today oh, boy_   
_The English army had just won the war_   
_A crowd of people turned away_   
_But I just had to look_   
_Having read the book_   
_I'd love to turn you on._

  
  
  
        As he sang, John was reminded of the flop of a movie he had starred in, _How I Won the War_ , which was the subject of this verse.  He remembered the six weeks in Almeria, Spain, where he had filmed it.  He remembered how he’d lost all that weight, and cut his hair, and finally started wearing his bifocals because he had dug the round granny glasses they had given him for the movie.  He also remembered the grim night the reviews came out.  He’d felt worse for Richard Lester, the director, than he had for himself.  John’s notices weren’t that bad.  They had simply said that he wasn’t really acting.  He was just being his irreverent self.  And John supposed that wasn’t such a bad thing.  
  
         John’s reverie was interrupted as Wix went into a whirlwind of loud, discordant orchestral sounds, until it dissolved into Paul’s stark allegro piano chords, and then, Paul’s voice emerged from the sound garden.  
  
  


_Woke up, fell out of bed_   
_Dragged a comb across my head_   
_Found my way downstairs and drank a cup_   
_And looking up, I noticed I was late_   
_Found my coat and grabbed my hat_   
_Made the bus in seconds flat_   
_Found my way upstairs and had a smoke_   
_And somebody spoke and I went into a dream_

  
  
  
        Paul remembered how he’d found this song fragment in one of his song notebooks while they were recording John’s verses, and realized it was a perfect middle-eight.  He gave no thought to giving up his intriguing song idea to John.  It never occurred to him to hold it back.  It was the perfect solution to John’s song, to break the monotony and introduce the faster paced final verse.  As he was thinking this, John’s anguished voice, seemingly from another stratosphere, suddenly interrupted.  John sounded as if he were in physical and emotional pain.  
  
  


_Ahhhh ah ah ah, ahhhhh ah, ahhhh ah_

  
  
  
The song’s tempo increased markedly, and John’s determined voice returned from the dreamy anguish of a moment earlier:  
  
  


_I read the news today oh, boy_   
_Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire_   
_And though the holes were rather small_   
_They had to count them all_   
_Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall!_   
_I'd love to turn you on_


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The concert tour comes to an end with a wild and psychedelic gig, and then John and Paul spend a few days unwinding in New York before going back to England.

      That night, after the concert, John, Paul and Ringo had spent a good few hours chewing the fat and drinking whiskey in Ringo’s study.   They had laughed themselves silly, and had raked up all the politically incorrect things they had each ever said or done to the point that they were all three unable to laugh any longer.  Their sides ached.  
  
         “I’m not supposed to drink you know,” Ringo said in his deadpan voice, and then burped loudly.  “I’m on the wagon.”  
  
         “It must be the wagon that is carrying the whiskey,” John drawled, and all three of them fell apart giggling helplessly.  
  
         “I’m serious, John.  I’m an alca – alco- holic.”  The word was devilishly difficult to pronounce, Ringo noted, not for the first time.  
  
         “I’ll drink to that!” John declared, and they all three of them fell apart giggling helplessly.  
  
         “Barbara’s gonna kill me when she finds out,” Ringo disclosed.  
  
         “Well, at least you’ll die happy!” John pronounced, and they all three of them fell apart giggling helplessly.  
  
         Paul’s conscience finally pricked him.  “We should probably stop drinking now,” he said, and then hiccoughed.  He was thinking only of Ringo in suggesting this, of course.  
  
         “No,” said John definitively.  “There’s still some whiskey left in the bottle.”  
  
         This logic seemed to instantly overcome Paul’s suggestion, and all three of them poured themselves one last jigger, until the bottle was dry.  
  
         “It was fun playing with you lot tonight,” Ringo opined, as he held his whiskey up to the light and watched its golden colors change.  
  
         “It was fun having you with us,” Paul said sincerely, smiling at Ringo with real warmth and love in his eyes.  
  
         “But you’re both a terrible influence on me,” Ringo continued, holding up his tumbler to them as a blatant example.  “I’m on the wagon, you know.”  
  
         John said, “You mentioned that before.  Should we have insisted on soda water tonight, instead?”  
  
         Paul joined in, “We should have, yes.”  
  
         Ringo laughed.  “Well, you two can drink soda water.  I’d have more whiskey to myself.”  
  
         The three of them, having exhausted the bottle of whiskey, made their way up to their rooms.  
  
         “Good luck,” Paul whispered to Ringo, as he prepared to enter the master bedroom, where Barbara awaited.  Ringo made a face, and disappeared inside the room.  John and Paul continued on down the hall, and found the guest room.  After collapsing in bed, having managed to clumsily divest themselves of their various articles of clothing, Paul said, “We fucked up.”  
  
         “How so?”  John asked.  
  
         “We should have realized about Ringo.  That he’s an alcoholic.  We shouldn’t have suggested the whiskey.”  
  
         “He’s the one who suggested the whiskey,” John slurred.  
  
         “Well, we should have said no,” Paul slurred right back.  
  
         “We’re not our brother’s keeper,” John said in a stentorian voice.  
  
         “Maybe not, but we ought to at least give a damn about our brother,” Paul responded.  A few moments ticked by before Paul ended with an interesting denouement:  “We should have suggested pot instead.”  
  
         John couldn’t help the explosion of laughter that escaped him.  “Just when I’m about to think you’re a fuckin’ Boy Scout, you pull it out at the last second, Macca!”  
  
  


*****

  
  
     
         This night was inevitable.  It had to come.  It had been destined to come since the first day of the tour:  it was their last gig, San Francisco, California.   It had to do with dates:  this was the best date Candlestick Park had available and so it ended up as the last gig on the tour.  But it was as good a place as anywhere else to end it, and maybe better.  
  
         At first they didn’t realize that they were in for a magical mystery tour with the San Francisco concert.  
  
         They knew something was different as soon as the vamp started for _Figure of Eight_.  The audience was on its feet, screaming.  Over 50% of the floor seats appeared to be occupied by men dressed like women, women dressed like men, men holding hands with other men, and women holding hands with other women.  Many of them were dressed in crazy colors and outfits, including hot pink boas and turquoise jumpsuits with silver platform shoes.  The full force of this wild audience hit John and Paul as soon as they approached the microphones, and while they were professional enough to keep singing, there was an aura of disbelief hovering over them.  The musicians were barely able to maintain their demeanors as they watched the audience’s hijinx.  
  
         John was singing his role in the chorus and Paul didn’t come right in with the verse, and he turned to see what was up with Paul.  What he saw was Paul bent over at his waist laughing his ass off.  John had never seen Paul incapacitated on the stage.  The poor man could not stop laughing, so the musicians elongated the vamp and worked their way around to another cue.  John stepped away from his mic and shouted, “Paul!  You’re up!”  Paul waved acknowledgment of this, and the look he gave John said, “so sorry…can’t help it…”, so John stepped back to the mic and burst into Paul’s verse in his stead until Paul had regained his composure and joined back in.  
  
         Paul redoubled his efforts to be serious, and decided to look up to the rafters instead of down to the floor, and it was this sense of dedication that got Paul through the next half dozen songs.  But when Paul had settled himself at the piano to play the opening bars of _Friend of Dorothy’s,_ the entire floor of the arena stood up and started cheering.  Paul bit his lower lip, and stared down at his hands.  Now it was John’s problem, because John had to face the audience.  
  
         John handled it very well.  He watched the audience’s activities with a look of interest and delight.  He began camping up the lyrics and slipping into a stereotypical lisping “gay” accent which sent the audience wild.  Paul, at his perch on the piano bench, was cracking up again, but forcing himself to stare at his hands.  
  
         Again, they regained their composure as they proceeded through another half dozen songs.   It was time to sing _You Want It Too_ , and as they both approached their adjacent mics, Paul met John’s eyes and the look they exchanged was: _this is going to create a riot! But here goes!_ This audience didn’t need mere signs, they had huge banners in rainbow colors, and their huge hats with ostrich feathers and psychedelic colors spoke their own language.  At least the audience was having fun.  With each line sung by “innocent” Paul the audience shouted  “ _ohhhhhh_ ”, and with each snide response by “devilish” John the audience shouted “ _yeahhhh_!.”  It took Paul all of his self-discipline not to fall over in laughter again, and even John was cracking up.  But he camped up his naughty responses, which only egged the audience on to be even more unruly.  John was just having the best time ever; he looked over and saw that Paul’s face was lit up with delight in the way only Paul’s face could do.  John loved it when Paul turned incandescent on him.  He started to get aroused, actually, which sometimes happened to him when he watched Paul on stage.  ( _Sometimes_?  John asked himself with an inner sneer.)   The applause for the song went on embarrassingly long.  _They’ve got our number_, John thought to himself with a smirk on his face.  He was tempted to lean over and give Paul a kiss – just to titillate the audience - but he knew that would not be a good idea in the long run.  There would be hell to pay forever.  So instead he and Paul moved on with their repertoire.  
  
         The next audience uprising occurred when they got to _Whatever Gets You Through the Night_.  As soon as the saxophone wailed out the opening bars, the audience literally exploded.  John and Paul, who sang the whole song together in harmony, stared at each other in utter amazement.  The entire floor of the arena had turned into a moving conga line. A boa here, a sparkling tiara there, a man painted all the colors of the rainbow, and women ( _were_ they women?  It wasn’t entirely clear) being carried on men’s shoulders as the audience snaked around the floor.  
  
         Up on the stage, John and Paul gamely sang through the madness, but they were staring in fascination at the audience throughout.  It was like looking through a kaleidoscope.  There was no question that this was the “funnest” concert they’d done out of 69 gigs.  These people really knew how to party!  
  
         All good things have to come to an end, and eventually John and Paul had made it through the show, and were coming out for their encores.   _Day In the Life_ had just crashed to an ending, and the last chord drained out of the hall.  The audience was absolutely silent for the first time all night, and John came out, stepped up to a mic, and began playing the acoustic intro to _Stand By Me_.  
  
  


_When the night has come_   
_And the land is dark_   
_And the moon is the only light we'll see_   
_No I won't be afraid_   
_Oh, I won't be afraid_   
_Just as long as you stand, stand by me_

_Oh darling, darling_   
_Stand by me, oh stand by me_   
_Oh stand, stand by me_   
_Stand by me_

_If the sky, that we look upon_   
_Should tumble and fall_   
_All the mountains should crumble to the sea_   
_I won't cry, I won't cry_   
_No, I won't shed a tear_   
_Just as long as you stand, stand by me._

  
       It was at this point that the audience had begun to sway and softly sing along with the song, and John turned to Paul and smiled.  He gestured with his head for Paul to come join him at the mic, to sing harmony, and Paul slowly approached, playing his bass the entire time, and leaned in towards John to join in…  
  
  


_And darling, darling_   
_Stand by me, oh stand by me_   
_Oh stand now, stand by me_   
_Stand by me_

_So darling, darling_   
_Stand by me, oh stand by me_   
_Oh stand now, stand by me, stand by me_

_Whenever you're in trouble won't you stand by me_   
_Oh stand by me, oh won't you stand now, stand_   
_Stand by me_   
_Stand by me_

      There was prolonged applause as the song ended, and normally this would be the moment when Wix would play the trumpet chords of the French national anthem to signal their last song of the night, but John had made a secret plan with the musicians.  Without Paul’s knowledge, he and the musicians had put together a big surprise.  Paul was confused when John waited for the audience to quiet down, and then began to speak into the microphone.  
  
         “We’re going to play something new tonight – we haven’t played it ever before.  In fact, its such a surprise that even Paul doesn’t know about it.”  John turned to Paul and took in Paul’s expression.  It was a cross between genuine surprise, excited anticipation, and deep suspicion.  John laughed, and turned back to the audience.  “This is Paul’s favorite song – at least his favorite one not written by either of us,” John announced, and the crowd cheered in anticipation.  “He came back from California in late 1966 after hearing this song, and was inspired to write _Sgt. Pepper_ ,” John added.  He had the audience’s full attention – not to mention Paul’s.  “I’ve always thought it was a great song for us to sing to each other, because it is true about our partnership in so many ways, so tonight I’m singing it to him in honor of our last gig of the tour.”  
        
         By now Paul knew what song it was, and felt thrilled – in both a good and bad way.  John was being too revealing in his comments, and it was going to fuel the rumors all the more, but the song really didn’t have to be interpreted sexually – it could be, truthfully, about their symbiotic friendship, so it could be explained away.  
  
         John turned to the other musicians and signaled them to begin.  Wix started to play the Hammond organ in what were to Paul immediately recognizable chords:  
  
  
  


_I may not always love you_   
_But long as there are stars above you_   
_You never need to doubt it_   
_I’ll make you so sure about it_   
_God only knows what I'd be without you_

_If you should ever leave me_   
_Though life would still go on believe me_   
_The world could show nothing to me_   
_So what good would living do me_   
_God only knows what I'd be without you_

  
  
  
      At this point John gestured for Paul to join in on the harmony.  Paul had already started picking out some counter-melodies by ear on his bass, and so he moved in to sing harmony with John on the chorus.  Their eyes met frequently, and Paul even blushed a little, because he felt as though he were exposing himself a little too much.  
  
  


_God only knows what I'd be without you_   
_God only knows what I'd be without you_   
_God only knows what I'd be without you…_

  
  
      The chorus echoed itself out, and John and Paul were standing there in the spotlight, and noticed that the entire audience was on its feet, and everyone was giving them a standing ovation.  This ovation wasn’t a crazy, silly, demonstration of flamboyant personalities again; it was a dignified, sober round of genuine applause – the audience thanking these two men for the magic of their creative partnership.  Paul’s throat was clogged, and he was afraid to say anything.  John had truly surprised him in a wonderful way, and even if there would be hell to pay for this for weeks to come, these 3 or 4 minutes were well worth it to Paul.    
  
      It was at this moment that John – seeing Paul was useless – signaled to Wix to play the “trumpet” chords on his synthesizer, and for the last time in nearly nine months, John and Paul sang their closing song for one last wildly appreciative audience:  
  
  


_(Love, love, love)_   
_(Love, love, love)_   
_(Love, love, love)_

_There's nothing you can do that can't be done_   
_Nothing you can sing that can't be sung_   
_Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game_   
_It's easy_

_There's nothing you can make that can't be made_   
_No one you can save that can't be saved_   
_Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time_   
_It's easy_

_All you need is love_   
_All you need is love_   
_All you need is love, love_   
_Love is all you need_

_(Love, love, love)_   
_(Love, love, love)_   
_(Love, love, love)_   
_All you need is love_

_All you need is love_   
_All you need is love, love_   
_Love is all you need_

_There's nothing you can know that isn't known_   
_Nothing you can see that isn't shown_   
_There's nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be_   
_It's easy_

_All you need is love_   
_All you need is love_   
_All you need is love, love_   
_Love is all you need_

_All you need is love,_   
_(All together now)_   
_All you need is love,_   
_(Everybody)_   
_All you need is love, love_   
_Love is all you need_

_Love is all you need_   
_Love is all you need_   
_Love is all you need_   
_(She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah)_   
_Love is all you need_

  
       Almost as soon as the song had started, so had the last and final over-the-top demonstration by this most demonstrative of audiences.   Exhausted but exhilarated, John and Paul lingered on the stage a bit longer than usual, taking in the crowd, the applause, the lights, the whole ambience, before reluctantly leaving it all behind.  Soon they were in their limo and headed for San Francisco International Airport for their private flight to New York City.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       Rather than open up their loft again, John and Paul decided to stay with Gerry and Jason – mainly because Yoko and Sean were not at the Dakota at the time. It was very late at night when they arrived, so other than giving Jason a hug, they’d crawled into bed and fell fast asleep within minutes.  
  
         The next morning Paul woke up first, which was usual.  He liked to exercise in the morning, and then have a leisurely breakfast.   He shrugged into his workout clothes, and called for a car to take him to a local gym.  Gerry was up, sitting at the kitchen table and drinking coffee while reading the Wall Street Journal.  
  
         “Good morning!” Paul said, as he strode into the room.  “Sorry for intruding on you so late at night.”  
  
         Gerry looked up and smiled.  “I never heard you arrive.  Jason sat up and took care of it.  No skin off my back.  Now he’s sacked out.”  
  
         Paul chuckled, and sat down with a bottle of water, as he waited for the car to call.  “So’s John.  How’s your work going?” he asked, having figured it was the safest subject to raise.  
  
         Gerry grunted.  “I’m looking forward to retirement, actually.  I have about five more years to go before it is affordable, assuming the stock market doesn’t do a complete crash and burn.”  
  
         Paul couldn’t imagine retirement.  What would a bloke do if he were retired?  Sit home and count his money?  Nothing about retirement appealed to Paul, but he was tactful enough not to comment.   Perhaps if his job were as boring as Gerry’s was, he’d feel the same way, after all.  
  
         Gerry put his paper down.  He had remembered something.  “I spoke to Rob on the phone a few weeks ago, you know.”  He said.  
  
         Paul couldn’t help blushing a little.  “Oh?”  
  
         “Yeah.  He told me that of course he enjoys your company, but there is nothing for John or Wes to worry about in that direction.”  
  
         Paul nodded in full agreement.  “That is what I thought.  I don’t know why John got so worked up about it.  I think he just hates hearing about business and finance.  Maybe he felt left out by it.”  
  
         Gerry chuckled and said, “Jason’s a bit like that, too.  But I didn’t want to have that concern hanging over Rob’s head – or your’s.”  
  
         “So that’s that,” Paul said firmly.  “Of course, John won’t accept it until he hears it from Rob himself, I think.”  
  
         Gerry laughed and said, “I’m sure I can arrange that.  It was all a misunderstanding.”  
  
         Just then the phone rang, and Paul answered it, knowing it was his car – and it was.  “Off to the gym.  See you in a few hours,” he said cheerfully, and disappeared.  Gerry smiled into his coffee.  Once he’d gotten over the “trust” thing he’d found he was quite fond of McCartney.  Who knew?  Paul was obviously loyal to John, and not the raving egomaniac about his looks the way he certainly could have been.  Gerry appreciated that Paul didn’t automatically assume that Rob was interested in him, and had been so reasonable about it all.  
  
         About an hour later, Jason was up and started making breakfast.  John smelled the bacon and woke up like a shot.  He wasn’t allowed bacon when Paul was around, and unfortunately, bacon was a favorite of his.  He figured he’d better get up immediately and have his bacon before Paul got back from the gym.  He always felt like a guilty child when Paul caught him eating meat.  Paul never said anything, but the look of disappointment was a killer!  
  
         John came in quietly, with a finger over his lips to warn Gerry to keep quiet.  He snuck up behind Jason, and gave him a bear hug from behind.  “I _love-love-love-love_ you!” John sang, and Jason giggled and blushed.  “Now give me that bacon quick, before the meat police gets home!”  Jason and Gerry laughed heartily and Jason put a pile of bacon on John’s plate of eggs.  
  
         John gabbed gaily as he devoured the bacon.  Jason barely got a word in edgewise.  “You wouldn’t believe the concert in San Francisco last night!” John crowed.  “It was amazing!  All these trannies and cross dressers prancing around in hot pink and purple!  They were singing along, and even did the conga!”  The details came out bit by bit.  “Paul was hysterical.  At one point he was bent over at the waist, and he couldn’t move.  I had to sing his parts for him.”  Jason and Gerry were amused, and paid rapt attention to John’s anecdotes.  When John finally ran out of ammunition, Jason cleared his throat.  
  
         “Gerry and I were thinking we might all go up to our cottage in the Hamptons for a few days – it’s very private, right on the beach, so relaxing.  Not far from Sag Harbor.”  
  
         John was enthusiastic about the idea, and agreed that they should do it, so long as Paul was up for it.  Almost as if by cue, they heard the doorbell ring.  
  
         “Speak of the devil,” said Jason cheerfully, and he got up to let Paul in.  
  
         Paul went straight to the en suite to shower and change, and afterwards he came bouncing into the kitchen about 20 minutes later looking as bright as a new copper penny.  Jason jumped up and cooked him some eggs.  Paul of course smelled the lingering aroma of bacon (which had all been eaten, and the evidence thrown away before he got there), but was polite enough not to mention it.  He figured John had probably filled his face with it, which he supposed was okay, since then John might not crave it for several more months.  
  
         “Paul, we’re all going to Sag Harbor,” John announced unceremoniously.  
  
         “We are?  When?”  
  
         “Yeah, Jason, when?” John asked.  
  
         “We could leave today, or tomorrow morning.”  
  
         “Oh, let’s go today,” John said firmly.  “I’d like to be somewhere away from it all, without a lot of noise or people.  I’ve been over-stimulated for too long, and need a break.”  
  
         Paul couldn’t think of anything to counter that argument, so he quite passively agreed to this plan.  
  
  


*****

  
  
     
         Jason and Gerry’s place on the beach a few miles up the coast from Sag Harbor was, in fact, an actual “cottage”.  It had two small bedrooms, with a shared “jack and jill” bathroom in the middle.  There was a tiny kitchen, and a combined dining and living area, which featured a small fireplace.  There was a deck that cantilevered off the house, where Jason and Gerry had configured some lounge sofas, rocking chairs, and a dining table with chairs.  Off the deck there was a set of wooden stairs leading down to the beach through tall hedges and trees, providing optimum privacy.  It was a very secluded and modest accommodation, but one that was cozy and comfortable.  John and Paul felt right at home.  
  
         This trip was the first time that the two couples had slept under the same roof, and it was ear- and eye- opening for Gerry and Jason, who had never hosted such prolifically amorous friends before.  That first afternoon they had arrived, all was normal.  Jason went off to do grocery shopping, while the others settled in, and then Gerry fired up the grill to make the vegetables Jason had cut for them (they were eating vegetarian out of respect for Paul’s sensibilities, although individually the other three would have preferred a _little_ meat, at least.)  He also made a delicious fruit salad starring fresh blueberries and mint, and Gerry mixed refreshing cocktails they could sip out on the deck.  The air was a little chilly so they wore their sweaters as they sat on the deck.  
  
         After they moved inside, Gerry lit the fire, and they sat around with whiskey speaking softly to each other.  It was so relaxing, that Paul actually fell asleep sitting on the sofa.  His head was thrown back and his mouth was open, his hand still firmly holding the tumbler of whiskey.  John noted this and told his hosts, “Let’s get a camera, quick. You don’t see _this_ often.”  Jason and Gerry smiled affectionately, and John then added, “He’s exhausted.  He doesn’t know it, but he is.  He does about 75% of the work when we’re on tour, plus all the business.  On top of that there’s the stress of touring, and hoping that each show goes all right.  It would kill the average person.”  John got up, dislodged the tumbler from Paul’s hand and put it on the table, and then leaned over Paul, gently stroking his cheek.  “Come on babe, wake up, its time for bed.”  
  
         Paul awoke with a bit of a start, and then realized where he was.  “I’m sorry,” he managed to croak, “I fell asleep, didn’t I?”   Jason and Gerry made comforting noises, while John pulled Paul up by his arms.  
  
         “You’ve earned a bit of rest,” John was saying to Paul quietly, his arm around Paul’s waist, as he led him to the guest bedroom.  
  
         Maybe Paul needed his rest, but he didn’t get much of it, Jason and Gerry soon discovered, not for at least 30 or 40 minutes at least, during which time Gerry and Jason lay in bed with their bedside lamps on, each pretending to read a book, while all sorts of bangs and noises came from the other room.  They barely could look at each other.  The bed was thumping against the wall now.  Jason’s eyes slid sideways in their sockets to catch a glimpse of Gerry, whose eyebrows were climbing slowly up his forehead.  
  
         _“Oh!”_ One loud, distinct shout echoed through the tiny cottage.  The rest of the noises were unintelligible, at least as words.  As sounds, though, they were instantly recognizable to Jason and Gerry.  Both men squirmed in their bed, praying for it to end, so they could turn off their lights and go to sleep.   Jason thought that maybe he and Gerry should do something themselves, but he quickly backed off that idea, since competing with the activity going on in the other room would obviously be impossible.  
  
         The next morning, Paul was up bright and early swimming laps in the small pool that was in the side yard of the cottage.  Jason caught sight of him while looking out the kitchen window.  He and Gerry had awakened after Paul, and Jason started breakfast while Gerry went out on the deck to read his newspaper with a cup of coffee.  John was the last to awaken.  
  
         By then, Paul was seated at the patio table chatting with Gerry and Jason, topless and wearing a wrapped towel around his waist and over his wet swim trunks.  The sliding glass door to the guest bedroom slid open to the deck, and John stuck his head out.  
  
         “Macca!  Get your ass in here!”  There was no mistaking John’s intent.  
  
         While Jason and Gerry were a little embarrassed and didn’t quite know where to look, Paul seemed unaffected by it.  He sighed and winked at Jason and Gerry and said, “ _Ahh – the dulcet sound of the loon, crying for its mate_.”  Jason and Gerry burst out laughing, and the awkwardness went away.  
  
         From the interior of the guestroom:  “ _PAULLLLLL!!!!!”_  
  
         Paul shot a comical look at his audience, one eyebrow impossibly high and his eyes alive with naughty mischief.  He got up slowly, and then walked, oh so languidly, taking his time, in the direction of the sliding door.  _He really can move that ass_ , Jason and Gerry thought as one.  The sliding door shut behind Paul, and suddenly:  
  
         A loud sound, and then, “ _Oooaffff!  Ow_!” It was Paul’s voice.  _What on earth_? thought Jason and Gerry.  They looked at each other in alarm.  Then laughter emanated from the room.  A great deal of naughty laughter.  
  
         Gerry cleared his throat.  “Hmmm.  Yes, well, I think we should go down to the beach, and give them their privacy.”  
  
         “Good idea,” Jason agreed, and grabbing their gear they practically ran down the stairs to the beach.  
  
         The second night there they all stayed up late on the deck to watch the full moon.  The lights in the house were all turned off, and the four men drank wonderful dark red wine with even darker chocolate, only periodically saying a word or two.  This time it was Paul who stood up and said, “I’m off to bed.”  
  
         Like a shot, John was up.  “Me too!”  
  
         “’Night!” Paul said cheerfully, as John rushed ahead of him, and opened the sliding door into their room, and pulled Paul in by his arm.  _Slam!_  
  
         This time it was quiet, and all they heard were desultory soft voices, and Jason and Gerry were thinking that maybe the two lovers were going to give it a rest for the night.  So, gratefully, they got up and went to their bedroom.  It was still quiet on the western front, so they turned off their lights and settled down to sleep.  
  
         _Bump_! Silence for 1-2-3, and then: _Bump, bump, bump.  BUMP_!   “ _Oh Christ Paul_!”  Maniacal laughter.  
  
         Gerry turned the bedside light on, and turned to look at Jason.  Jason was sitting up, his back against a pillow, and his eyes looking shell-shocked.  “There they go again,” Gerry said sarcastically.  
  
         “I had no idea!” Jason said.  By now they’d figured the two men were at a 2 to 3 times per day pace.  At their age!  
  
         The next morning, Gerry broke the news to Paul that Rob and Wes actually had a neighboring cottage, and they had invited all of them over for dinner that night.  Paul had given Gerry a lugubrious look, but had then remarked, “I think John will be okay with it, if I spend more time with Wes than Rob.  Let me talk to him about it.”  
  
         John was clearly not well pleased.  Gerry could hear what sounded like an argument coming out of the guest room, and he felt bad that he had suggested it.  He should have just told Wes “no” when he’d called to invite them.  Jason came out of the kitchen on to the deck at the sound of the arguing, and he had a worried expression on his face.  He looked to Gerry for an explanation.  
  
         Gerry said softly, “I mentioned Rob and Wes’s invitation.”  Jason nodded in understanding and said,  
  
         “We should have just said ‘no’.”  Jason commented.  Gerry sighed and wordlessly agreed.  
  
         The arguing stopped.  And then…what was that sound?  _Thump!_ Giggles.  Silence for 1-2-3, and then:  _Bump, bump, bump…_  
  
         “Oh no!” Jason cried out loud, and then smashed his hand over his mouth as if to muffle the sound that had already escaped.  He looked at Gerry in dismay, and then they both started laughing hysterically.  
  
  


*****

     
  
     
         The drive to Rob and Wes’s cottage was accomplished in a kind of awkward silence, interrupted by brief awkward statements by either Gerry or Jason.  
  
         “I forgot to tell Wes that you’re a vegetarian, Paul, I hope there will be enough for you to eat,” Jason said.  
  
         “I will be fine, no worries,” Paul said reassuringly, and lapsed back into a thoughtful silence.  
  
         A few moments later:  “They found out we were here because the local grocer mentioned to Wes that Jason had been in,” Gerry said in a false hearty voice, trying to convey the message that there had been no plan or design behind the invitation, and that it had not been initiated by Jason or Gerry.  
  
         “Oh, it’s that kind of community, is it?” John said lightly, and then lapsed back into a more brooding silence. He was still a little pissed about how this had come to be, but he wasn’t going to be a complete ass about it.  Paul had, after all, _errr_ , “convinced” him that there was nothing to worry about.  And at least he had Jason there for moral support if things got too heavy.  
  
         Wes came to the front porch as the car pulled in, and Jason turned to John and said, “show’s on!” and then jumped out of the car as if he were terribly excited and shouted, “ _Wes!  It’s been forever!_ ” and floated over to give him a huge hug.  John looked at Paul and they exchanged an ironic look.  Paul shrugged and then they each got out of the backseat by his own door.  Gerry, meanwhile, was a little pissed at Jason’s put down of Wes to John, but decided he was a little dubious about some of Jason’s friends, too, so fair was fair.  He got out of the car last, and ambled towards the cottage.  
  
         Wes made a show of giving Paul and then John a big hug, too, and ushered them inside.  As Paul stepped into the house the darkness blinded him for a moment as his pupils adjusted, so it was with some surprise that Paul felt himself engulfed in another smothering hug, and it gradually dawned on him it was Rob.  
  
         Paul froze a bit under Rob’s ministrations, but soon enough – it was a respectable amount of time – Rob had let him go, and went on to give John an equally affectionate hug.  Paul gave John an “I told you so” look, and they all went into the front room, which was elegant and understated.  Wes was handing out perfect Manhattan drinks with green olives on sticks, and in the background – way in the background, and very softly - Shostakovich’s Symphony Number 5 was playing.  There was a fire crackling in the fireplace, and one could still somehow hear the crashing of the waves on the shore a quarter of mile away down the beach.  
  
         John sat right next to Paul, so close as to allow no intermediary space, and Paul, on the other side, was squished up against the sofa arm.  On the other side of John, Jason sat, looking like a protective hen.  Gerry and Rob were chatting amicably, and Rob was not showing Paul any undue attention.  Wes was sitting in an armchair facing the sofa, and making small talk with Jason.  
  
         Dinner was served, and although Jason had not warned Wes about Paul’s eating preferences, Wes had remembered from their time in South America, so had made an entirely vegetarian dish for Paul, while throwing in some fish for the others.  John swore off the fish, in solidarity with Paul (and because fish was not his favorite thing), but Jason and Gerry were grateful for it.   The dinner had been catered, and it was outstanding, and they all gathered around the fire after dinner drinking wine and chatting.  John had begun to relax.  He had seen no signs of Rob flirting with Paul.  He noticed that even Wes looked relaxed and calm.  John began to wonder if his radar had been off.  Perhaps he had been wrong about Rob?  
  
         There came a moment late in their evening together, that Rob situated himself next to John.  He leaned in and spoke softly to him.  “Gerry told me that you believe that I have designs on Paul,” he said.  John’s eyes widened in surprise and not a little alarm.  “I’m very sorry if I gave that impression.”  Rob smiled and leaned back.  “It’s just so rarely that I meet someone who is actually interested in the boring things I’m interested in; I probably was overly-enthusiastic about it when I met Paul.  I’m afraid I’m not exactly the life of the party, usually.  I leave that up to Wes.”  
  
         John laughed, although he was watching Rob’s face intently.  He could see no artifice or subterfuge there, and John again wondered if he had imagined it all.  “Thanks for saying that,” John responded.  “But I never worried that Paul would do anything.  I was more worried about Wes’s feelings.”  John’s eyes were like two lasers burning into Rob’s eyes.  But Rob didn’t flinch.  
  
         “I was unfaithful to Wes some years ago, and so naturally he worries.  All of it is my fault, and I try to make it up to him.  But, you know, once you’ve done something to hurt another person, you never really are able to erase it.  Vestiges of it always remain.”  Rob looked sincere and remorseful to John.  And it wasn’t as if John didn’t know what Rob meant.  For a moment he had bad memories of the things he had done to and said about Paul when they were estranged in the ‘70s.  Who was he, John thought, to judge Rob’s relationship with Wes?  
  
         Rob, meanwhile, hadn’t expected to get so much blowback over what he had thought was some subtle opening flirting back in South America.  Never before had the subject of his flirting been quite so clueless, and never before had the subject’s lover been so suspicious.  On top of it, Lennon had gone and expressed his suspicions to Jason and Gerry, so he was being watched now by four suspicious and disapproving men:  John, Wes, Jason and Gerry.  Ironically, the only person who seemed not to be suspicious and instead was carefree and utterly charming to boot was the one person he had hoped to quietly peel away from the rest – Paul.  Clearly, he would have to rethink his strategy and rejoin the field when he wasn’t outnumbered so badly.  He never gave a thought to giving up on this exciting new challenge.  Rob was not the type to abandon a goal once it was set. 


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final Chapter of The Elephants Dance
> 
> I am sad that this series is over; it had its own ebb and flow. But the story takes a darker turn now, and I have to go back to the drawing board to work on Part III. The new series will be called "Too Much Rain", and that pretty much describes it.
> 
> This last chapter has no real sexual warnings; it's pretty mild stuff. But sadness and stress is just on the horizon, and this chapter is a quick snapshot of that future.

      The flight home to London from New York was peaceful, and both John and Paul were delighted to return to Cavendish.  Linda, of course, picked them up at the airport, and they arrived in the late afternoon.  
  
         The visit with Jason and Gerry had ended with John and Paul combining their caricaturing talents on a series of cartoon panels on a long, accordion-folded card.  On page one was a cartoon of Jason and Gerry greeting them at the front door with big smiles.  The next panel showed the guest room door slamming and outrageous noises coming out of it.  The next panel showed Jason and Gerry in their bed, sitting up, with their eyes looking like they were exed out while words like “ _bam! bang! ohmigawd_!” were written around the edges.  The next panel was Jason and Gerry sitting on the deck, and all sorts of crazy sounds were scattered around the edges of the panel.  There were two more panels where Jason and Gerry were sitting around listening to cringeworthy sex sounds.  The final panel showed Gerry and Jason at the front door waving ‘goodbye’ to the still not visible John and Paul, but they looked exhausted and 10 years older than they did in the first panel.  John and Paul had both signed the cartoons with – “ _Thanks for the hospitaliity  
– and sorry! Love J  & P.”  _Jason and Gerry had laughed heartily over the gift, and would cherish it for the rest of their lives.  
  
         Everyone had agreed that the night with Rob and Wes had been a complete anti-climax.  Rob had not paid any special attention to Paul, giving most of his attention to Wes, and Wes seemed to blossom with Rob’s attention.  Jason had been pleasantly surprised, and quietly decided that John was just paranoid and jealous, worried about losing Paul to anyone who showed any interest in things that Paul liked that John didn’t like.  John, too, was beginning to wonder about his sanity.  Perhaps Rob had a crush on Paul when they first met, but for whatever reason he had thought better of it and had behaved like the perfect gentleman and host.  Thus, from John’s point of view, a worrisome subplot appeared to have concluded with a whimper.  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
     Late on their first night home, Linda and Paul lay in bed, holding each other.  Linda had something to say, and she was waiting for the exact moment to say it.  She figured that moment had arrived.  
  
         “I want to go away with you for a while, Paul,” she said softly.  They had already made love, and were in a cozy, lazy mood.  “It seems like years since life has felt normal.  I want to just go somewhere for a long time, so we can be alone.  Mary said she’ll take care of James.”  
  
         Paul had just spent more than eight months on the road, and wasn’t eager to “go away” anywhere.  On the other hand, poor Linda had been stuck in London for most of that time taking care of the house and their children, and Paul felt he could not say ‘no’ to her.  “Of course, Lin.  Where did you want to go?”  
  
         “The Caribbean,” she said instantly.  
  
         “You got it, luv.  Tell me where and when, and I’ll be there.”  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       The Caribbean waters lapped warmly up the beach, and Paul felt the water running over his feet, as his toes melted into the oozy sand.  He looked up and blocked the sun with his forearm.  It had been two weeks in St. Lucia with Linda.  They had rented a small villa on the beach, and it was heavenly.  But Paul, at this particular moment, was missing John.  He’d managed to go hours at a time without missing John, but it was getting harder and harder for him to ignore it.  He hoped Linda couldn’t tell.  He didn’t know the exact moment when the scales tipped – that moment in time when he realized he needed and wanted John more than he needed and wanted Linda.  But then, when he was truly honest with himself, he figured he had _always_ wanted and needed John more.  Linda had been a stand in for when John and he and John had to go their separate ways for a while, and it had been serendipitous that he and Linda turned out not only to love each other, but to like each other too, and together they had built a wonderful family.  
  
         This hardly solved his problem; he did love Linda.  And he needed her.  And their children needed them both, and almost everything he believed in was tied up with his family.  But more and more now he had begun to believe that it wasn’t fair to Linda.  He was obsessed with John, and their creative partnership, and their friendship, and their sexual relationship, and it was harder and harder for him to divide himself between John and Linda as a result.  Paul turned around and looked up the strand to see Linda, laying out in the sun on a blanket about halfway up the beach.   He had done right by her for the last two weeks, devoting himself to her exclusively, at least outwardly.  The next mild wave broke against Paul’s ankles, and he again looked down to his feet, squished in the mud, and he experienced that disorienting feeling of being sucked into the ground as the waves began to retract.  Stuck - while your life pulled away.  _What the fuck was he going to do?  How could he continue to live this lie?_  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       It had been a month, and Linda and Paul had been off on their trip in the Caribbean.  John had been holding down the fort in London, although Mary was really the one in charge at Cavendish.  Instead, John had spent most of his time adding the finishing touches to the new home.  John was thrilled by it, especially because there wasn’t a thing in it that he hadn’t chosen.  He had moved into the house while Linda and Paul were gone, and had some definite thoughts about how the living situation between the three of them was going to work once they returned.  It was amazing how confident a person could be about a plan when arguing about it with himself in his own mind.  
  
         The day came when Paul and Linda returned.  It was a week or so before Paul’s 47th birthday, and they arrived with shameless golden tans and the most beatific, blissful smiles John had ever seen.  He tried not to grind his teeth in front of everyone.  He’d save that for later.  He was so over waiting for the celebrations to end, because he wanted to drag Paul over to the new house, and anoint their new master bed with a first class fuck.  John looked surreptitiously at his watch.  _How long before I can pull Paul off by himself?_ Part of John knew this was disrespectful to Linda, but the other part thought, _my turn!  My turn!_  
  
         Unfortunately for John, Paul and Linda’s children wanted time with their parents too, and John would have to wait it out.  Mary and Stella had made dinner, and after that everyone wanted to hear Paul and Linda’s vacation stories, so John waited it all out, periodically looking at his watch, and clearing his throat.  He was sending what he thought were obvious messages to Paul by staring at Paul darkly several times.  Paul was oblivious, seemingly, and appeared to be totally into his wife and children.  Soon John began to feel threatened by this.  Did Paul and Linda come to some understanding while they were away for a month?  Had Paul made some promise to her about reducing the time he spent with John, and pushing him to the side?  John felt his heart starting to beat faster, and his breaths coming faster and shorter.  In fact, he felt a kind of terrified rage working up from the bottom of his stomach, and it was making its way to his throat.  It had been a long time since he’d felt so much irrational rage, and it seriously worried him.  He was afraid he was going to burst - right there in front of the whole family!  And he could not do that… c _ould not do that…_ to Paul and Linda.  
  
         “I’m not feeling very well,” John said abruptly, interrupting the cheerful voices.  
  
         “Oh dear!”  Linda cried.  “What’s wrong?  What can I do to help you?”  
  
         “Nothing, really.  I’m going over to my house to lie down,” John said, getting up and heading for the French door into the back garden.  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”  He appeared to be talking to them all, but he was looking at Paul with a glint of anger in them.  
  
         “Don’t be silly, John,” Paul responded, “I’ll come by in a few minutes, as soon as we’re finished here, and see what you've been up to over there.”  
  
         John nodded wordlessly and left the room.  
  
         As the door closed behind him Linda said to Paul softly, “I think John feels left out.  You should go after him.  We’ll be okay here.”  
  
         Talking his cue from Linda, Paul got up and gave each of his children a hug.  He went upstairs to pack a quick overnight bag, and then followed John to the new house.  The back door was locked, so Paul rang the bell.  _I hope John isn’t pouting_ , Paul thought to himself as he waited several minutes at the back door.  It was chilly outside, and Paul was losing patience _.  John couldn’t wait 30 bleedin’ minutes for him to finish talking to his kids before storming off in a funk?_  
  
         John was finally at the door.  “Paul?” he asked.  
  
         “Who _else_ , John?  It’s cold out here – let me in!”  Paul’s irritation was clear in his voice.  Paul listened while the locks were undone (there were three of them), and slowly the back door opened.  John was peering out of the aperture at Paul.  “Well?  Can I come in?” Paul asked, his voice softening.  When he was actually looking at John, he couldn’t stay mad.  John stepped back, and let the door fall open, and Paul stepped through.  
  
         John turned around and walked away after he opened the door. _Yup.  Pouting_.  Paul followed him, exasperated, as John trailed into the sitting room.  Paul was startled when he walked in and saw a mostly white room with bright South American fabrics splotched around, and some of Paul’s most colorful modern art collection on the wall.  “Wow!” he said, forgetting that John was being irritating.  
  
         John couldn’t help feeling proud over Paul’s reaction, and he immediately dropped his pouting.  “It looks good, doesn’t it?” he asked, fishing for compliments.  
  
         “It sure does – I’m afraid to touch anything!” Paul said in genuine awe.  “John, it’s beautiful!”  Paul was looking at John in plain surprise. Who knew that John had this kind of thing in him!  John smiled back.  “Can I sit down?”  
  
         “It’s your house, too, Paul,” John said, reverting to a grump.  
       
         “Is it?” Paul asked.  John was about to be angry until he saw the warm mischief in Paul’s eyes.  “Does that mean I get a key?”  
  
         John decided to drop the hurt act.  “Of course you get a key, Paul.  It’s in your office.”  
  
         “My office?” Paul asked, surprised.  “I get an office?”  
  
         “It is a blatant attempt to keep you here when it is time to do the paperwork,” John said with a cheeky grin.  “You want to see?”  Paul nodded, and John led him across the hall into a wood-lined study.  It had the original full wall mahogany paneling and bookshelves, and a beautiful Persian rug occupied the floor along with traditional leather easy chairs.  
  
         “I feel like an earl,” Paul said, checking it all out.  “It’s seriously cool.”  
  
         “The best part is…” John said as he sashayed over to a cabinet and opened it up – it was a full bar, complete with a full set of Waterford cut crystal glasses, tumblers and wine glasses.  
  
         Paul laughed out loud and said, “You know me too well, John.  Pour us some whiskey.”  
  
         John did as he was told, and they each took one of the cognac-colored leather chairs.  
  
         “You’re upset with me,” Paul finally said after a few moments of quiet reflection.  
  
         John sighed.  “No, not anymore.  I was so looking forward to seeing you, and you acted as though I barely existed.”  
  
         Paul smiled.  “You exaggerate John, and you know better.  I could hardly give you the greeting you deserve surrounded by my wife and kids.”  
       
         John accepted the comment graciously and said, “Yeah, I know that.  Wasn’t one of my more mature moments.”  
  
         Paul smiled and said, “You mentioned you weren’t feeling well.  Are you feeling so unwell that you don’t want to go to bed and fool around?”  
  
         John hopped up, leaving his tumbler of whiskey behind him.  “I’m suddenly feeling a whole lot better!”  
  
         Paul laughed, and got up too, drawing John into his arms.  The hug they had denied each other earlier was intense.   It wasn’t long before John started kissing Paul’s neck, while Paul nuzzled John’s neck and whispered a few tender words in his ear.  John heard them, and he wasn’t quite sure to make of them, but they sent his stomach in a kind of free fall.  So, a moment later when Paul broke the embrace, took John’s hand, and led him up the stairs to their newly appointed bedroom, John went quite submissively.  Paul was in charge that night, but he was gentle and deliberate in his lovemaking.  John could feel the words Paul wasn’t saying, and they were “words” he’d always wanted to hear, so he was filled with a sense of wonder at each soft touch of Paul’s body against his own.  
  
         Paul wasn’t thinking; he was just experiencing the inexpressible relief of having John in his arms again.  It had only been a month, but it had seemed much longer than that to him.  He knew he could never spend that much time apart from John again.   He didn’t let guilt about Linda haunt him this night; this night was going to be all about John.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       After Paul had left, Linda had done some unpacking, took a long, comforting bath, and climbed into bed.  She picked up a book she had started while in St. Lucia, but her troubled thoughts kept intervening.   She had been fighting off these thoughts for weeks.  The month in the Caribbean had been wonderful – romantic and relaxing.  But there was something missing.  Paul hadn’t been 100% _there_.  Linda concluded that she had made a mistake by not going on tour with Paul.  Paul’s first love would always be composing and performing music, and in order to be close to his heart, a person had to be part of his music and his performing.  Linda had figured this out in 1970, and had following Paul all over the world, dragging babies, nappies, and illegal bags of pot with her.  She didn’t really enjoy performing; she was basically a shy person.  And she knew she wasn’t a singer or a musician and it was hurtful to be the butt of horrible jokes about her looks and her lack of musical skill.  But if she didn’t fill that spot beside Paul, she knew someone else would.  Consequently, she had been determined to be that person no matter what the price.  
  
         Until the Japanese pot bust, that is.  After that terrible event, Linda had put her foot down and insisted that they stop touring.  Paul at first was okay with it – he’d been shook up by the jailing – but it wasn’t long before the urge to perform was bubbling up in him again.  And then, of course, John had suddenly injected himself back in Paul’s (and therefore Linda’s) life.  Now, as Linda looked back on the decisions she had made in the wake of the Japan bust she accepted fully for the first time that she had made a fatal mistake.  Fatal to her relationship with Paul, that is.  Oh, she knew that as long as she wanted to stay with Paul that the marriage, their friendship, and their romantic relationship would all survive.  But she acknowledged with a sense of finality for the first time that she had abdicated her place as the one by his side because of her distaste for performing and touring.  She had left the coast clear for John Lennon to come sailing in and lay down anchor in Paul’s heart.  
  
         Paul had been loving and warm with her in St. Lucia, and he had never mentioned John’s name.  Maybe that was what gave it away?  Maybe because John’s name had been unspoken, it had hung over Linda’s head like a raincloud the whole time.  Linda had begun to imagine that John was there – invisible and sure of himself – the whole time.   Linda had wiped these thoughts away while in St. Lucia, because there was so much to see and do, and Paul was physically with her and her alone, but now that they were back in London, and Paul had gone off to be with John, Linda was no longer able to quiet these painful feelings.  
  
         Should she end it?  Should she and Paul face the reality of their situation, and sit their children down and tell them the great experiment was over, and John had won?  Linda felt tears erupting out of her eyes, and she began to sob.  This was not like Linda at all, but once she gave in to the sobs, she could not stop.  She couldn’t imagine not being with Paul – despite all of his flaws (and lord knew he had them!)  Paul had been the first person who made her feel special, and important, and talented, and worthy of unquestioning love.   So much of her present sense of self was due to all the years of abiding love and admiration Paul had given to her.  It was so true what people said – you don’t know what you have until you lose it.  Linda had actually gotten to the point where she had taken Paul’s devotion and love for granted, and now that she felt a change - however subtle - in the level of devotion and love, she understood on a deep level how much she had depended on it, and needed it.  
  
         James was not even 12 years old.  This was not a good time for him to experience his parents’ divorce.  And what good would ending it do?  At least if she accepted the status quo, she would have her family life with Paul, and a warm friendship, and a satisfying love life.  This was a whole lot more than many women had.  The sobs finally stopped as Linda accepted this truth.  It wasn’t pretty, but it wasn’t ugly either.   She came to the same conclusion she always seemed to come to:  at least until she could see a better future without Paul, she was going to stay in the relationship.  No point in cutting off your nose to spite your face.  And John was so changeable.  He might suddenly throw Paul over again.  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
     
         A few days later, on a quiet morning in June, John was busy planning a very private birthday celebration for Paul’s 47th.  John knew that Linda was throwing a family bash for Paul on the 18th, so he was planning his fete for the 19th.  Paul disliked big birthday parties almost as much as he despised “surprise” parties.  (Most control breaks hate surprise parties after all.)  John was planning a surprise, but not a party, and he was going over his journal where he had written down his “to do” list.  
  
         John was a little bummed this morning because his personal assistant, Wendy, had just reminded him that he had his annual physical exam to attend later that day.  Wendy had handed him a big questionnaire from his doctor, and had already filled in as much as she could, but the rest only John could finish.  The form asked a series of questions about John’s health with check boxes for “yes” and “no” next to them, and John took an inordinate amount of pride in marking “yeses” to all the healthy answers, and “no’s” to all the unhealthy ones.  He stopped at one question.  _Hmmm. Stress_.  John figured in all honesty that he had a lot of that, so he circled the word “heavy”.  Down he went through the checklist until he came to the following question:  
  


_“ **Y     N**      Have you noticed any moles, growths or discolorations on your skin?”              _

             
  
         This question triggered John’s memory.  It could only have been in the last two weeks or so that John had noted a tiny brown mole on his left upper chest, just a few inches below his collarbone.  It hadn’t been there before, and John wasn’t sure if it was getting larger or if he was just more aware of it lately.  John got up and went to the hall mirror and pulled his t-shirt neck down so he could look at the mole.  It was very small, sort of roundish, and the diameter was no bigger than that of a pencil eraser.  John had thought of it as a larger, darker freckle, because as he’d aged he’d noticed his skin freckling more.  _Oh, well_.  John thought for a moment before checking the “yes” box on the form.  It was probably nothing, but no harm in pointing it out to his doctor.  
  
         That afternoon the chauffeur drove John and Wendy to the doctor’s appointment.   On the way, John made the chauffeur stop at a coffee stand so he could get a malted coffee with whipped cream and chocolate on top just in case his doctor told him he had to give up caffeine, sugar, fats, chocolate and/or dairy.  John was still a slim man, but he was a good 20 pounds heavier now than he’d been under the Yoko regime seven years earlier, and he looked and felt a lot healthier and younger as a result.  Consequently, a “coffee” drink containing upwards of a 1000 calories didn’t faze him in the least.  
  
         John’s primary care physician was a character.  Dr. Sidney Greenstein was a thin, short man in his late forties with a nebbish look about him, up to and including the thick horn-rimmed glasses.  He had no bedside manner to speak of, and didn’t believe in babying his patients.  John was a perfect match for Greenstein because they could snarl at and insult each other with complete impunity.  
  
         “So, John, what have you been up to these days?” Dr. Sid asked, as he picked up John’s chart.  
  
         “You’re joking, right?” John had a sneer on his face:  the end of the phenomenally successful Lennon  & McCartney concert tour had been big news in Britain just weeks earlier; Sid could not have missed it.  
  
         “You mistake me for someone who follows the careers of pop stars,” Sid sneered back.  
  
         “That’s ‘rock star’ to you, smartass,” John responded cheerfully.  
  
         “Pop…rock…what’s the difference?” Dr. Sid was now paging through John’s questionnaire.  
  
         “Was that a Duran Duran bumper sticker I saw on your car just now?” John asked, as if apropos of nothing.  
  
         Sid let it slide.  “Looks like you’re still far healthier than you have any right to be,” he said as he perused the questionnaire.  
  
         “Don’t know what you’re on about,” John responded.  “It’s all due to good living.”  
  
         Sid snorted loudly.  “So what’s this about a mole?” he asked as he got to page 3.  
  
         “It’s like a freckle on steroids,” John said, “right here on my chest.”  
  
         Sid gestured to John to unbutton his short, and John did so.  Sid saw the mole and sobered immediately.  It was a very dark brown – almost black – except around the edges on one side it had a little purplish red in it.  It was roundish, but irregular in shape, and this worried him the most.  He was doing his best not to upset John, so he asked in a casual tone, “So how long have you had it?”  
  
         “Noticed it about two weeks ago,” John answered, still unaware there might be a problem.  
  
         “Has it changed in appearance or size since you first noticed it?”  Sid asked, holding a magnifying glass up to the mole and studying it intently.  
  
         John shrugged.  “I think its bigger, and maybe it has gotten darker, but I’m not that sure.”  
  
         “I think I should take a biopsy of it.”  
  
         “A bi- what?” John asked, for the first time feeling a spasm of alarm.  
  
         “I’ll just take a few cells, for testing, to make sure its nothing to worry about,” Dr. Sid said, buzzing for the nurse.  
  
         “What is there to worry _about_?” John asked, worried.  
  
         “These growths are usually benign, but every once in a while they’re malignant.”  
  
         “ _Malignant!”_ John repeated loudly, feeling his heart stop.  “You mean, like with a _tumor_?”  
  
         “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Sid said as the nurse set up a tray with surgical implements.  Sid picked up what looked like an odd-shaped pair of scissors.  “This might hurt a bit,” he said as he swiped the skin around the mole with disinfectant and then quickly snipped a small piece of the mole.  
  
         “ _What – OWWW_!” John yelped, and then smacked Sid on his arm.  “That _hurt_ , Sid!  You should have _warned_ me!”  
  
         “I _did_ warn you!” Sid responded patiently, amused by John’s childishness.  
  
         “ _Too late_!” John snapped.  
  
         “Oops!  Sorry ‘bout that,” Sid laughed.  “Well, it’s all done now.”  He slapped a band-aide on the mole after wiping it down again with an antiseptic.  “You should take the plaster off when you get home,” he instructed.  
  
         “So what happens now?” John asked, like a surly child.  
  
         “I send it to a lab, and I’ll call you when I get the results.  Now, let’s finish your exam so I can be rid of you.”  
  
         “Can’t be over soon enough for me,” John groused.  
  
         “It’s time for the fun part,” Dr. Sid said in a creepy singsong voice, snapping on a fresh pair of medical gloves and gesturing for John to assume the position.  
  
         “You sick bastard,” John grumbled.  
  
         As the doctor began to perform the procedure he asked innocently, “Any sex toys stuck up there I ought to know about?”  
  
         “None that _you_ need to know about,” John responded sweetly.  And then he coughed.  
  
         The exam was finally over, and Dr. Sid said, “The nurse will be in to take a blood panel and an HIV test.”  
  
         “HIV test?  _Again_?”  John felt another frisson of fear run through him.  Did this have anything to do with his mole, he wondered?  
  
         “John, John.  It’s routine.  Every year you’ll have to have one, since you will insist upon using all those…err… _sex toys_.”  
  
         “Ha, ha.  Where did you go to med school, Sid? Mengele University?”   
  
  


*****

    
  
  
         That night Paul was with Linda at Cavendish.  John had shared dinner with the family, and then had gone home to rest.  He was humming to himself.  John had forgotten all about his doctor’s appointment.  He really couldn’t believe in a tumor or AIDS.  He felt fantastic and healthy, and in any case he’d always had the amazing ability to turn off his brain to things he didn’t want to believe.  Consequently, he slept soundly that night.  
  
         The next day he was watching television with his feet up when the phone that was sitting next to him on the lamp table rang.  John was interested in what he was watching and decided not to pick up the phone.  It rolled over to the answer machine.  
  
         “John, it’s Sid.  Please give me a call when you get in.”  
  
         John heard Sid’s voice and it didn’t sound ominous.  He’d call him back later, when the movie he was watching was over.  Several hours went by, and the phone rang again.  
  
         “John – this is Sid again.  I need you to call me as soon as you get in, alright?” Sid’s voice definitely sounded strained.  Maybe even worried?  John was now going into lockdown emotionally.  What if he had AIDS?  And what about Paul?  And Linda?  Could it have been lying dormant ever since that debacle with the unspeakable Nigel?  Was it possible he had actually completed the sex act with Nigel after all?  John’s heart was suddenly plunged into a full-on bobsled race.  He didn’t want to know.  He really didn’t.    He got up and climbed the stairs, took two sleeping pills to knock himself out, and then got into the bed and pulled the covers over him.  It was only 5 o’clock in the evening.  
  
         The phone rang again.  It woke John up.  It was now 7 p.m.  John was groggy from the trazodone.  He waited for the message.   “John – seriously now.  This is Sid.  I know you’re scared, but you need to pick the phone up.  Let’s talk…John?”  Silence reigned for a few more seconds, and then a click indicated that Sid had hung up again.  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       The next day was June 18th.  Linda had of course invited John to the family celebration and she had produced one of her amazing meals.  She gifted Paul with a special old guitar for his instruments collection, and the kids had written and performed a skit sending up their father’s quirks and crochets.  John had been avoiding the phone all day long, and forced himself to laugh as the kids sported their way through their script, which was obviously hastily written and not very well rehearsed.  Somehow, this made it funnier, but still John nursed what felt like a molten golf-ball sized rock in his stomach.  Paul, oblivious and a little drunk, laughed light-heartedly at the spoof.   That night Paul was again staying with Linda, so John excused himself and went back to his home, again taking trazodone – this time 3 tablets – and pulling the blankets over his head. Tomorrow,  it was his turn to fete Paul, and John was determined not to let Dr. Sid’s constant telephone messages spoil it.  He’d call Sid back when he was good and ready, and not a moment before.  
  
         In the morning the doorbell rang, and Wendy answered the door.  She left the messengered letter on the sideboard in the hallway for when John woke up.  He was sleeping late that day, apparently.  
  
         John finally awoke at 11 a.m.  He took his time getting out of bed, showering, and getting dressed.  He then meandered downstairs, and Wendy met him in the downstairs hallway.  She pointed out the letter that had been delivered by messenger two hours earlier.  John went over to it, picked it up, and was curious.  It had on the front only his name:  “ _John Lennon_.”  John went into his sitting room, and opened the envelope.  
  
         It was a letter from Dr. Sid.  
  
         “ _John – call me.  Now.  Please_.”  
  
         John felt a spurt of anger mixed with fear, and he scrunched up the letter in his fist, and threw it into the fire simmering in the fireplace in the sitting room.  
  
         Paul was at a board meeting for McLen that day, but would be coming home for dinner with John that evening, and …well, for whatever else in the way of private celebrations John had planned.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
       Paul was bored out of his mind.  It was the tail end of yet another McLen “bored” meeting, and accountants had been pointing at charts with wooden pointers for hours, seemingly.  He surreptitiously looked at his watch, hoping no one would notice.  Why did it take businessmen hours to finally settle on the _obvious_ solution?  Paul had known what to do two hours ago, but knew the others had to come to that conclusion in their own time.  It appeared that they were finally circling the drain.  Just then a secretary knocked and came in.  The accountant who was speaking stopped for a moment as the embarrassed secretary tiptoed over to Paul and handed him a note.  
  
         “ _Dr. Sidney Greenstein on the telephone for you.  Urgent.”_ The note said.  
  
         “Excuse me,” Paul said, nodding politely to the seven other men and three women at the table – the other Boardmembers of McLen.   He knew that John’s doctor was named Sid Greenstein, although he’d never met the man.  He quietly nipped out of the boardroom, and headed down the hall to a secretary’s carol, picked up a telephone receiver, and dialed the number on the message.      The phone rang, and a woman answered.  “Dr. Greenstein, please,” Paul said calmly, although his heart was beating a tattoo on his chest.  
  
         “Who is calling, please?”  
  
         “Paul McCartney,” he said.  
  
         “Oh, of course.  One moment please.”  
  
         Paul waited for what seemed like forever, and then a male voice answered the phone.  
  
         “Mr. McCartney!  We’ve never met.  I’m John Lennon’s physician, Dr. Sidney Greenstein.  Thanks for returning my call.”  
  
         “You said it was urgent.”  Paul’s heart was thumping against his chest, and he feared it would explode out.  
  
         “I’m sorry to bother you at work; your wife said I could find you here.”  
  
         “My wife?”  Paul was confused.  Was Sid referring to John as his ‘wife’?  
  
         “I have your home phone number as John’s emergency contact,” the doctor said apologetically.  “Your wife answered.”  
  
         “ _Ohh_ , I see,” Paul said, mentally berating himself for not realizing that the man obviously had been referring to Linda, not John.  “What’s up?”  He tried to sound confident and upbeat, but he was almost crippled with worry at this point.  
  
         “I’ve been trying to get hold of John for two days, now.”  
  
         “Two _days?_ ” Paul repeated, surprised and helpless.  
  
         “We have the results of his biopsy.”  
  
         “ _Biopsy_?”  Paul’s voice was faint and scared.  
  
         “He has a mole on his chest.”  Sid was gauging McCartney’s reaction.  Sid knew that John was at least bisexual. He remembered from the whole AIDS scare of a few years ago that John had a male lover who turned out to have AIDS, and Sid had warned John to let his other lovers know about the possibility of AIDS contact, but since then he had heard nothing.  Sid had just assumed Lennon was a bisexual.  He wasn't the first one of his patients like that, nor would he be the last. For a moment - upon realizing who Lennon's emergency contact was -  he had felt it was odd that it was Paul McCartney.  But then, they _were_ creative partners and lifelong friends, and John wasn’t married, so why not?  At least he wouldn’t have to break the news to a wife or a lover, Sid thought to himself.  
  
         “A mole?” Paul asked, still confused and disoriented.  
  
         “During his physical three days ago, I did a biopsy and I have the results.  I'm afraid that the tests show that it is malignant.”  There was no gentle way of breaking the news.  
  
         “ _Malignant_.”  Paul repeated the word in a dull, confused voice.  It hadn’t sunk in yet.  
  
         “It’s a cancerous growth; melanoma.”  
  
         Without thinking, Paul shouted the word “ _Cancer!?_ ” He quickly realized he shouldn’t have done that, and looked up over the carol’s dividers and saw secretaries’ heads popping up from behind their cubicles all the way up and down the hall.  _So much for confidentiality_ , Paul thought, disgusted with himself.  Tomorrow – he worried  - the tabloids would be filled with rumors about Paul McCartney having cancer.  That was the problem with tabloids; their stories usually had a kernel of truth in them, but they always got the main thing wrong.  And the main thing here was that _John_ – _his_ John, the one and only John, the _irreplaceable_ John – had cancer, and life would never be the same again.  
  
  


** **_FINIS_** **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC in _"Too Much Rain"_....


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